


Hot Priest Cold Winter

by Commandante Theresa (boredsuburbanhousewife)



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-02-12
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:50:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 27,352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236894
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boredsuburbanhousewife/pseuds/Commandante%20Theresa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Priest! Killian. Private investigator Emma. Modern AU. Storybrooke's women are smitten by the handsome, mysterious new priest at St. Aloysius. Fantasies are running wild, including Emma's. But she knows that the new priest is hiding something and she is determined to find out his secrets even as the two embark on a dark, twisted, obsessive, affair. Father Hook is a very bad, bad boy.  Emma is a very naughty girl.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. There's A New Kid In Town

Chapter 1: There's A New Kid In Town

Emma Swan pulled into Storybrooke around dusk on a wintry November Friday just as the first snowflakes began to swirl. She was utterly exhausted and looking forward to taking a couple of long delayed months off from her demanding job as an insurance investigator specializing in art theft to spend time with her parents in the picturesque Maine coastal town in which she'd grown up.

She'd spent the last few years traveling the world in pursuit of thieves, fraudsters and scammers of all variety. She'd just made a rather spectacular recovery of an original copy of the Bill of Rights from a shady antiquities dealer and she was due for some time off. Although her ideal vacation would have involved palm-fringed white sand and turquoise waters somewhere, her father, David, had just had emergency heart surgery. Although her mother Mary Margaret assured he was recovering beautifully and there was nothing to worry about, Emma had detected strain in her mother's cheerful voice. They were the last parents to try to hold her back or make demands, but she could tell they needed her. So she had decided to spend the winter with them, and get reacquainted with old friends.

The door flew open as she scooted up the stairs, bags in hand. Her parents emerged eagerly to envelop her in their warm smiles and loving arms.

"Oh Emma, honey, we're so happy you're here!" Mary Margaret squealed, giving her a fierce hug. "Come on in and get comfortable. Your room is waiting for you, of course."

David, more restrained, embraced her and gave her an affectionate kiss on the cheek. "How's my little girl," he said, his voice a little gruff with emotion.

"I'm fine, but how are you, Dad? How are you feeling?" Emma stood back and looked at him. He was paler and thinner than she remembered, his cardigan sweater hanging loose on his shoulders.

He shrugged off her concern. "I feel great, actually. You know there's nothing to these stents and things these days. Or at least that's what they tell me," he laughed.

"How about dinner at Granny's?" Mary Margaret suggested, leading Emma into the warm, bright house by the hand as David insisted on carrying her bags upstairs, determined to prove he was as hale and hearty as ever. "You'll see a lot of your old friends there – they can't wait to catch up!"

Later on at Granny's, happily surrounded by her parents and many old friends, Emma caught up on the gossip. She was sad to hear that old Marco had died last summer and amused to hear that Victor Whale was still an aging would-be Lothario trying to pick up girls way too young for him down at the Rabbit Hole.

"His combover is worse than ever!" Emma's longtime best friend Ruby told her, giggling.

But most of the excitement centered on the new priest at St. Aloysius Church.

"Oh my God, Emma, he's all anyone can talk about," Ruby told her. "He's young and gorgeous. Can you imagine? I always thought priests should be old and ugly but I was obviously wrong."

"Don't tell me, let me guess," Emma said, taking a healthy swallow of her wine, "Everyone goes to church now?"

"Yes, don't judge," Mary Margaret unexpectedly piped up. "And you're going next Sunday too. It's practically the main event in Storybrooke these days."

Emma rolled her eyes and leaned back in her chair. "Give me a break. Since when do we go to church?"

As far as Emma remembered, St. Aloysius-By-The-Sea had not even had a parish priest for years and years. It was so small the Diocese of Portland, which had jurisdiction over all of Maine, hadn't bothered appointing one for years. Instead, one of the priests from Bangor came over occasionally to preside over a monthly mass or the odd wedding or funeral.

"Don't listen to them, Emma, stay home with me," David chimed in, gesturing to Granny for another beer as she passed around dessert menus. "There's something about that priest  
that's entirely too glib and facile for my taste. I don't trust him one bit."

Ruby's long time boyfriend Graham, Storybrooke's Sheriff, nodded in agreement. "Absolutely right, David. He's a little too good to be true, and I think his accent's fake."

"Accent?" Emma asked, quirking an eyebrow.

"He claims to be from around London, but moved to the States to attend college and seminary," Graham said scornfully.

"Oh, you're just jealous," Ruby squeezed his arm affectionately.

"Does this priest have a name?" Emma turned to ask her father.

"Father James Hook," David supplied, "I mean, if that's even his real name."

"David! Why would a priest make up a name?" Mary Margaret reproved him with a hand on his arm. David folded his arms over his chest and glowered.

"Given the rarity of anyone new moving to Storybrook, I'm not surprised a handsome stranger would excite comment," Emma said, topping up all the glasses around her with wine.

"Oh, he's not just a handsome stranger," Ashley piped up suddenly, "he's a priest, and not just any priest, a hot priest. Who hasn't had that fantasy, huh? It's so…Thorn Birds!"

All the women burst out giggling and Ashley blushed. The men just groaned and rolled their eyes in disgust.

"The men envy the attention he gets," Mary Margaret explained indulgently. "And I don't think the man has had to buy or make his own dinner since he got here. There's either a casserole, pie or something else home-cooked and yummy left on his doorstep or someone has invited him over."

"Likes his drink, though," Leroy commented from further down the table, scowling at the mention of the new priest. "I've seen him plenty of nights knocking back a few at the bar at Tony's. He's not the friendliest guy, either.

"You've piqued my curiousity, at least," Emma laughed. "But if the good ladies of Storybrook are plying him with food on a daily basis, he'll probably weigh 300 pounds by this time next year."

"Forget it," Ruby said, "He works out practically every day at Gold's Gym. And God, you should see his squat thrusts….." her eyes looked a little dreamy.

Graham looked like he'd eaten something distinctly unpleasant, so Emma changed the subject and the talk turned to skiing. Emma suspected that Ruby was exaggerating the priest's appeal to needle her own rather beautiful boyfriend and the other women were just bored and in need of a new project. All the same, Emma rather looked forward to Sunday morning.

The following Sunday found Emma, Mary-Margaret and practically every woman in Storybrooke with any feelings left below the waist seated demurely in the pews while listening attentively to the good Father Hook say the mass.  
She barely heard the words so transfixed was she by the man's physical beauty and what seemed to her at least, obvious sensuality. Ashley was dead right: he reminded her of Father Ralph de Bricassart in The Thorn Birds, a guilty pleasure she had reread many many times. How had Colleen McCullough described him? Something about "a man who had to be aware of how he looked: the height, the perfect proportions of his body, the fine aristocratic features, the way every physical element had been put together with a degree of care about the appearance of the finished product God lavished on few of His creations." She also seemed to recall references to black hair and startling blue eyes, and the conclusion of "he was perfect." Check, check and check.  
Rather interestingly, Father Hook sported facial scruff. Most priests she had seen were clean shaven (not that she had seen that many). The scruff gave his face a rugged look that enhanced his appeal. Without it, she thought critically, he would have been too baby-faced. Despite his prettiness, there was nothing metrosexual or feminine about him. He reeked of confident and unapologetic masculinity. She couldn't help noticing how the scruff attractively framed his obscenely sensual full lips, lips that fascinated her a little too much as she watched them forming each word like a caress.

Though she was too agitated to take in what he was actually saying, his richly timbered, resonant voice reminded her of deep golden, well-aged whiskey, and it seemed to wash over her like a powerful psychoactive drug. The man wasn't just handsome, he threw off a powerful sexual charisma almost like a scent in its impact. She shifted uncomfortably on the hard pew, acutely aware of the tingling sensation between her legs and the moisture beginning to pool there. She uncrossed then recrossed her legs, squirming and feeling horribly exposed and embarrassed. Glancing furtively around her, she quickly saw she was hardly the only woman squirming as they stared at the priest, eyes a little glazed, lips slightly parted and, occasionally, nervously moistened.  
When she looked up again, she froze. She could swear that Father Hook was staring right back out at her. Even more mortifying, she felt certain that he knew exactly the nature of her unholy thoughts about him. She tried desperately not to blush or fidget under his blue gaze. Oh God, was that the slightest hint of a smirk on his face? She dropped her eyes and began turning the pages of the hymnal in her hands as if suddenly fascinated by the contents. When she dared to raise her eyes, she was relieved to see that he had now turned to face the altar.

She breathed out in relief. With the distraction of his face turned away from her and unable to check out his ass under the chasuble, her musings turned towards other interesting questions about the hot priest.  
What the hell was he doing in Storybrooke? What was a man like that even doing in a little town in the middle of nowhere? In a church that hadn't even merited a full time priest until now? She remembered vividly that Father de Bricassart had been extremely ambitious to rise in the Church, what was wrong with this guy? Perhaps he had been disgraced and sent here as a punishment, or to clean up a scandal. Thinking of the church's history of sexual misconduct and covering up that conduct, she had to wonder if the handsome young priest had he been caught with a dead girl or a live boy. If that smirk he'd given her was not her imagination, it seemed all too likely.  
The hackles on her neck prickled. Not for nothing was she one of the youngest and most successful of the many private insurance investigators working on the recovery of stolen art and antiquities. She relied at least as much on her gut instinct about people and situations as she did on her formal training in either art history and investigative techniques. And her gut was telling her that her father and Graham were right. There was something off about that priest.  
She decided there and then that she absolutely had to find out his secret. She didn't think she was an obsessive compulsive person, but she was an absolute terrier when it came to finding out what she needed to know and nailing a suspect. Like the Canadian Mounties and every Jane Austen heroine, Emma Swan always got her man. She would stop at absolutely nothing and would use every trick in her repertoire to get to the truth. After all, she needed to keep her brain and her skills limber while she was hibernating in Storybrooke for the winter, didn't she?

Mary Margaret had stood up next to her and she realized it was time to go up for communion. She patiently waited her turn and when it came, she looked Father Hook right in the eye and, after moistening her lips with her tongue in a deliberately provocative manner, parted them to receive the host from his long fingers. As he placed the wafer on her tongue, she thought his eyes widened and dilated, just a little. She wrapped her tongue around the host and pulled it into her waiting mouth slowly, then gave him the merest hint of a smile. He quickly looked away as she shifted toward the waiting altar boy holding the cup of wine.  
Step one, she thought to herself, satisfied as she returned to her seat.

After the service, Emma and the others waited in line to shake the priest's hand on the way out of church. She was behind Mary Margaret and Ruby as she heard Mary Margaret exclaim over the lack of an organ to provide service music and suggesting that the town start a community fund to pay for a new one.

"Yes, what a great idea!" enthused Ruby beside her, "Can I help you with your organ, Father?" she asked innocently.

Emma started to laugh but controlled herself by feigning a fit of coughing. She saw the priest hide a smile. "I'll have to consult the vestry," he said, seriously, "but your generosity is appreciated."

He turned from Ruby to greet Emma. He turned his amused blue eyes to her then, regarding her with frank and open interest. "I don't believe we've met. Are you new in town too?" he said, his voice neutral and perfectly proper.

"This is my daughter, Emma, Father," Mary Margaret put in, "She lives in New York, but she's staying with us for the winter."

"How nice for you all," he said politely as he took her hand solemnly. His hand was warm and dry as it exerted pressure on her own, but she had to resist the urge to yank it away. His touch was like an electric shock, and she didn't want him to see how it unsettled her.

"And how is your father feeling?" he asked, solicitously, "I understand he recently had surgery." Emma noticed he had not let go of her hand, and she tried to resist the mesmerizing pull of his eyes.

"He's doing great, thanks for asking," she managed, coolly.

"I'm so glad to hear that." She felt him place his other hand on top of hers. "Thanks for coming today," he let go finally and turned to the next parishioner, but she could have sworn that for a split second before he released her hand, he had caressed her palm with his thumb in a subtle, yet incontrovertibly sexual manner.

When they were safely beyond the church and out of earshot, Ruby turned to her with a triumphant grin. "Well, was I right or what? Don't you need a cold shower?"

"Ruby!" Mary Margaret scolded her, "He's a man of God!"

"Man of God, my ass, I bet he'd make you see God!" Ruby laughed.

Now it was Emma's turn to tease. "Ruby, in all likelihood you are going to be struck by lightening and sent straight to hell for that. Besides, I think every female in this town is in love with your gorgeous boyfriend. You know everyone calls him 'the Golden Torso, right?" Emma dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper but by then Mary Margaret had moved away from them to talk with Regina, Mayor Mills, who nodded and smiled at Emma from across the churchyard.

"The more the merrier," Ruby smiled, incorrigible as ever. "But speak of the devil – I think I'll be getting home to Graham right away. I've got a surprise wake up present for him. When you think about it, he ought to be thanking the new priest! Our sex life has had a whole new lease on life since I started attending church regularly. We're doing some interesting role play."

"God moves in mysterious ways," Emma said, smirking and giving Ruby a little shove."Come on, Emma, you've got to admit he is fuckable."  
"Oh I agree, he's fuckable, all right." And he knows it all too well, she thought.


	2. Strip My Mind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma surreptitiously investigates the new priest. She has a drink and flirts with him at the bar at Tony's restaurant. Later on, she has an interesting encounter while walking home through a dark alley at night. Didn't Mary Margaret warn Emma about the type of man a girl could meet in dark alleys?

Emma spent the next week discreetly investigating the good Father Hook. She staked out the church and the small rectory located directly behind it, and she discreetly followed him when he was out and about. After a few days, she had his routine down.  
In the mornings, he went about his duties at the church, including attending meetings and working in his office. A steady stream of mostly female parishioners, many carrying Tupperware or foil wrapped containers of food, visited him daily. Around lunch time, he'd walk the short distance to the little rectory and disappear inside for a few hours, reemerging around 2 pm to go for a run or work out at Gold's Gym, just as Ruby had told her.

In the evenings, he'd either go home for dinner or, occasionally, dine at a parishioner's house. He seemed to have a lot of invitations to dinner. After that, he'd either go home or to Tony's to have a few drinks at the bar, just as Leroy had told her. He didn't encourage conversation. Then he'd go home and usually turn the lights off before midnight. There were Evening Prayers and Confession on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 5:30 pm.  
So far his life seemed deliberately boring.

Frustrated, Emma decided to push it a bit. The next week she and Ruby accidentally on purpose turned up to work out at the gym at the same time he did. She surreptitiously watched him as he methodically went through a fairly challenging circuit, mostly using free weights, the Smith Press, sit ups, and pull ups. Ruby was right; he was in excellent physical condition, not particularly bulky or roidy looking, but wiry and jacked, not an extra ounce of fat anywhere. Wearing nothing but a pair of Under Armour gym shorts and a tank top, he appeared oblivious to the stares of every woman in the gym.

Emma was concentrating on her own routine on the mat, challenging herself to double her usual number of leg lifts as she held herself square on her hands and knees when she became aware that someone was observing her. Whipping her head around, she caught him standing right behind her. His eyes were on her ass and the expression on his face was anything but holy. In fact, it was downright predatory.  
He caught her eye then, but instead of flushing and ducking his head in embarrassment at being caught, he held her gaze as he slowly licked his lower lip with his tongue. At the same time, he'd taken off his shirt and was using it to wipe the sweat from his neck and shoulders.

Embarrassed to find a half-naked priest leering at her in so vulnerable and suggestive a position, Emma scrambled to her knees and turned around to find herself face to face with …. his package, clearly outlined under the thin material of his shorts.

"Miss Swan, I believe?" he inquired, smirking a little as he offered his hand to help her to her feet.Her face felt hot and she knew she was blushing to the roots of her hair. She became even more flustered when she realized she wasn't sure what to do with her eyes. She didn't want to look at his body, didn't want to look at the dark matted chest hair on his well-defined pectorals tapering down over his rippling abdominal muscles and disappearing into his shorts. But she also couldn't bring herself to look at his too blue eyes or the full, obscene lips that smirked at her either. Instead she stupidly fixed her gaze on a point just beyond his left ear, as if she were slightly wall-eyed.

"Yes, that's right," she recovered, clearing her throat nervously, "I'm David and Mary Margaret's daughter.""I just thought I would say hello and inquire about your family's health. They are well? Your father's recovery is progressing?" he asked politely, his face now expressionless and impersonal.

"Yes, thank you," she said stiffly, looking down at the floor. Goddamnit. She prided herself on her unflappability under pressure. Why did he rattle her so? And why did she feel like he was the one stalking her, when it was really the other way around?  
She pushed past him, muttering that she needed to get going. Ruby gave her an arch expression as they pushed through the doors of the gym into the cold outside.

"I saw you talking to the priest," she said, her eyes mischievous."Yeah, so?" Emma said, a tad defensively."So, what's your reaction?" Ruby demanded. "Would you hit it or not?"

Emma paused to roll her eyes and take a deep breath. "Would I hit it?" she asked rhetorically. "Yes, I'd hit it. Till it caught on fire."

That was Tuesday. On Thursday, she decided she was going to catch him at a disadvantage rather than the other way around.  
Donning a tight little black dress that showed off her figure and barely covered her ass, she finished the outfit with some Fred Leighton vintage diamond drop earrings, a Cartier tank watch, and a pair of Christian Louboutin fuck-me red pumps, her hair loose and streaming down her back.

She found him sitting at the end of the bar at Tony's. He was wearing his Look Don't Touch sign in the form of his dog collar. He appeared to be drinking seltzer water.

"Is this seat taken?" she asked, sliding in next to him.He shrugged and cocked an eyebrow at her. 

"Why, Miss Swan, I'm surprised to see you here."

"Can I buy you a drink, Father?" she asked innocently, motioning the bartender over.

"Wouldn't say no," he said nonchalantly. "Scotch. Laphroaig. Neat, please."

"Will that be the 10 year old or the 18?" the bartender asked him."Oh, the 18, I think," he answered, smirking at her, "I think Miss Swan can afford it.""Interesting choice," she said, "wouldn't have pegged you as a single malt man." She turned back to the bartender.

 

"I'll have a glass of chardonnay – Rombauer if you still have it," she ordered.

"Why, how very 1980s of you, Miss Swan," he said, amused. "That's one big, fruity, in-your-face chard. But that suits you, doesn't it? Nothing subtle about you, is there?"He smiled a little, but Emma noticed that his smile rarely reached his eyes.

"I see you know your chards as well as your Scotch, Father," she rejoined. "Guess you're a man who really likes his drink."

He smiled another enigmatic smile but said nothing. They sat in silence until the bartender brought their drinks.

"Slante," she said, raising her glass.

"Slante," he returned, gravely, clinking her glass and taking a pensive sip.

She decided to plunge in. "What's a man like you doing in the priesthood?" she blurted out.

"A man like me, Miss Swan?" he answered, "like what?"

"You're good looking, obviously educated and sophisticated, and you clearly like women. I don't see you as a humble priest ministering to the parish ladies in a backwater in the middle of nowhere." There, she'd put it right on the table.

"Well, we all have our callings, don't we? Our special gifts? Perhaps my calling as a priest comes from my unusual perceptiveness." He had parried her thrust.

"Perceptiveness?" she questioned him, raising her eyebrows skeptically.

"Yes, I'm quite perceptive," he said leaning his face toward her so closely she could feel the merest brush of his scruff and his warm, whiskey-soaked breath tickling her face, "I'm very good at seeing through the facades human beings present to the world. I can look right through them. I can see the dark temptations and forbidden desires they keep buried deep down underneath. Call it my superpower, if you wish."

"Oh really?" she said archly, taking a sip of her wine, "And can you see through me too?"

He chuckled, toying with his glass. "Yes, I think so. By all appearances, you're a real ballbuster, both professionally and personally. I'm sure most men find you very intimidating, and you've probably been disappointed many times to realize the man you're seeing isn't as strong as you are. You feel contempt for their weakness, then you discard them."

Emma raised her eyebrows in surprise, disconcerted by her own transparency. "I'll neither confirm nor deny that."

A brief smile flitted across his handsome features. "And yet I find it especially interesting that you're wearing Carnal Flower."

Emma had to struggle not to drop her jaw in shock that he had correctly identified her current favorite perfume, purchased a few months ago at Barney's from the Frederick Malle counter.

"How did you know that?" she demanded suspiciously.

"I have a particularly acute sense of smell," he said, winking at her.

"How does a priest know so much about ladies' perfume?" she demanded rudely.

"Perhaps many ladies visit me in the confessional booth and I've learned over the years?" he suggested.

"I'll bet," she replied sarcastically, swirling the wine in her glass before taking another swallow.

"Well, it's a perfect choice for you, really. As I'm sure you know, it's a fragrance with the scent of tuberose, a symbol of forbidden pleasure. Tuberose is a beautiful and dangerous flower, so passionate and sensual that in some cultures, young women are not allowed to feel its intoxicating scent after sunset." He studied her reaction through hooded eyes.

Taken aback, she just stared at him, not sure how to reply, when she felt his hand on her naked thigh, sliding up to rest against the thin silky material of her thong. His long, supple fingers fluttered lightly against her sex as he gave her thigh a hard squeeze. Shocked, she could feel her stomach clench and wetness seeping out of her as he withdrew his hand.

He knocked back the rest of his Scotch, then got up without another word. "Thanks for the drink," he said breezily, then sauntered out of the bar as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.  
Her eyes narrowed as she recovered her composure. There was something definitely dodgy about that priest, and she was going to find out what it was. But, she had to admit, she had never been so turned on. She wanted more. Much, much more.

The next day Emma watched from a discreet distance until she had seen Father Hook leave for a run. She knew from her observations he'd be gone at least an hour. Making sure she was unobserved, she stealthily crept around the church until she was at the locked door of the rectory in back. Pulling on a pair of rubber surgical gloves, she took out a picklock and held her ear to the door as she gently clicked the tumblers over and the lock opened. As she opened the door, she failed to notice the thin, clear piece of fishing length that had been held in place by a bit of gum high above her head, one end attached to the frame, the other to the door itself.  
She pushed into the house. There was very little to see. The furniture was basic and she knew that it came with the house. The front door opened into a combination living and dining area. There were no pictures, knick knacks, books, or anything else of a personal nature. A center hall at the back of the room revealed a kitchen on one side and a bathroom on the other. The kitchen was bare other than a half drunk bottle of Laphroag, a couple of bottles of wine, a few cans of tuna, and a jar of peanut butter. She picked up the wine bottles to examine them. Amused, she noted that both were hearty reds, one The Prisoner and the other called The Monster. Interesting choices. The fridge was empty. The bathroom was scrupulously clean. The only evidence of human occupation an open shaving kit containing basic male toiletries, some soap in a plastic container, shampoo, toothpaste. Nothing remarkable.  
At the back of the small house, there were two bedrooms on either side of the hallway. One was utterly empty save for a bed, a dresser and a chair. The other contained a double bed with a bare mattress topped by a sleeping bag and a travel pillow. There was a small portable Bose Bluetooth player on the bedside table along with a single paperback book: Great Expectations. She shook her head, perplexed. In the dresser, Emma discovered several neat piles of shirts, some sweats, exercise and under clothes. Opening the closet, she found a few dress shirts, both standard and clerical, a few suits, a blazer, some dress pants. There was a large duffle bag in the bottom of the closet. Riffling through it, she finally found something interesting: a small wooden box containing a rifle cleaning kit. What the hell was a priest doing with a rifle cleaning kit?

She walked slowly around the room, trying to figure out what this meant. This wasn't a normal home. The man was a ghost, living like he was ready to bounce at any moment. Other than the book and the strangely out of place rifle cleaning kit, it was entirely impersonal. Just before she left the room, her eye was caught by a stack of four pennies sitting on the lever used to open the window. She did a further circuit of the house and discovered similar stacks at every window. When she let herself out the front door, she examined the jamb carefully until she spotted it – the broken fishing wire. She reattached it as best she could, then quietly closed the door.  
Jesus Christ. What kind of a priest lives in a place loaded with anti-intrusion devices?

That night, Emma, more obsessed than ever with learning the priest's dark secrets, found herself dressed all in black, a pair of high powered binoculars in hand, hiding in some dense shrubbery in the back of the rectory. She was going to find out what that  
tricky bastard got up to when he thought no one was looking.

He came over from the church at about 8. She saw him turn on the lights in the living room, then the bedroom. She heard the sound of music then, almost certainly coming from the Bose player. She moved closer to the house, madly curious to hear what was on his playlist. Scar Tissue, by the Red Hot Chili Peppers. Consoler of the Lonely by the Raconteurs. Black, by Pearl Jam. Comfortably Numb, by Pink Floyd. Lithium by Nirvana. Boulevard of Broken Dreams by Green Day, I Wanna Be Sedated by The Ramones, Psycho Killer by Talking Heads. Father Hook was one angsty son of a bitch, she thought. Either that or he had been driven into the priesthood by a really, really bad breakup. She was surprised she hadn't found a couple of big bottles of Klonopin and Prozac in the medicine cabinet.

The music changed to Mozart's Requiem (yeah, that's angsty as fuck too, she thought) and she saw the light snap on in the kitchen. Moving around the house, she saw him pour himself a scotch, open a can of tuna, and then proceed to eat it right out of the can with a salad fork while leaning against the counter. Guess no one brought over a casserole today. It all looked unbearably lonely and sad. She was actually starting to feel sorry for him.  
Dinner concluded, she saw the bathroom light switch on and the sound of water running in the shower. She moved back around to the rear of the house and raised her binoculars to peer into the bedroom, noting that he hadn't bothered pulling down the shade. Well, why would he? The church and rectory were located on an isolated headland on the edge of Storybrook. It overlooked the sea and backed up to a fairly dense copse of trees.

Evidently, he liked long showers, because she was getting bored and fidgety by the time he breezed into the bedroom, droplets of water still glistening on his shoulders and – God have a mercy – only wearing a towel around his waste. She swallowed hard a couple of times and tried to steady her slightly shaky hand on the binoculars. She felt like a completely perverted voyeur. A wave of shame washed over her for grotesquely invading the man's privacy, but she suppressed it determinedly. He was hiding something, she was absolutely certain. What kind of a priest brazenly feels up a woman at bar?

But he wasn't exactly hiding anything now. She watched, transfixed, as he walked with deliberate strides to the window and looked out. She could swear that he knew she was out there because she felt like he was looking right at her. He stood there for what seemed like an eternity as she debated making a run for it. He was perfectly framed in the light of the window as he slowly unwrapped the towel. Suddenly she was staring right at his naked body in all its male, freshly showered glory. His muscled chest was covered with dark hair that tapered down a happy trail to his groin. Unusual and arousing to see a man with a hairy chest in this era of manscaping, she thought. She squirmed a little, heat rising from the deepest part of her belly as she felt herself growing wet. Feeling even dirtier, she zoomed in on his crotch. Fucking hell, he was well-hung. As he stood apparently unconcerned at the window, she watched fascinated as his cock began to grow right before her eyes. When he reached down and began to stroke it, she nearly dropped her binoculars. Her throat suddenly felt parched as the back of her neck began to prickle and a sense of renewed panic set in. It was as if he could see her in the dark. The sick bastard knew he was being watched and was deliberately putting on a show for her benefit! He smirked out into the darkness before reaching up and slowly pulling down the shade on his impromptu peep show.

Emma fled after that, and she didn't really stop shaking until she'd gulped down a few shots of bourbon and pulled the covers over her head in her childhood bedroom.

******************************************************  
Emma went out of her way to avoid the hot priest for the remainder of the week. She even went so far as to duck into a store and pretend to look at birthday cards to avoid walking by him in the street. She utterly refused to go to Mass on Sunday, instead hanging out with her father and watching football with him for most of the day.

She finally caught a glimpse of him late one evening sitting at the bar at Tony's while she was at a table grabbing a late dinner with Ruby, Graham, Belle and Ashley. She didn't speak to him, and he made no move to say hello either, just nursed his drink while Milah, the town skank, hung all over him. Well, they say Jesus liked to hang with prostitutes too.

Despite herself, she felt the tiniest bit jealous while she watched them, and just the tiniest bit miffed that he appeared to completely ignore Emma.

She was enjoying a mild buzz from the wine she'd drunk as she walked down the deserted streets, her high heels echoing loudly off the dark buildings. She had just ducked down an alley near the hardware store to cut across the schoolyard to her house when she felt herself being shoved up against the wall and pinned there by a pair of strong arms, one pressing against the back of her neck, the other against her waist. Heart hammering, she struggled helplessly for a few moments until she heard him laugh darkly in her ear.

"I know it was you who broke into my house," he hissed, "don't bother trying to deny it, I could smell the remnants of your perfume. A word of advice, love, if you plan to continue your career in B and E, use a scent with less silage. Didn't I warn you young girls shouldn't inhale the scent of tuberoses after dark? It enflames the passions." She could feel his hot, whiskey-scented lips nibbling at her ear as he pressed her hard against the wall, her face scraping against the bricks.

Oh, holy fuck. He was turning her on. She could feel herself getting wet as her pussy clenched reflexively. He kicked her legs apart and she felt his hand roughly probing her between her legs and ripping off her G-string. She could have cried out for help, but something stopped her, and the next minute he was stuffing it in her mouth. Her heart was pounding and she was panting with arousal as she felt him brutally shove three fingers right up her hot, aching cunt. She moaned in response, rutting back against him.

He swore when he felt how wet she was. "What a wanton little voyeur you are, your tight little cunt already hot and dripping wet for me," he said, curling his fingers in a way that made her gasp. "Haven't you ever heard the story about curiosity and the cat, Swan?" he continued in a sinister, conversational tone, stilling his hand for a moment. 

She whimpered with need and frustration, trying to fuck herself on his magic fingers but he shoved her back into the wall and held her still.

"You've been a very, very naughty girl indeed. And do you know what happens to naughty little girls?" he hissed. "Nod yes or no, Swan." He released her neck so that she could shake her head "no".

He chuckled, then his voice became even more threatening. "They get spanked and sent to bed without their supper. Would you like that, darling? Didn't I tell you I knew your most secret, forbidden desires?"  
She moaned again as he shoved his fingers back into her and began to play with her more aggressively, expertly manipulating her and rubbing little circles around her swollen clit as she clenched around his fingers. He was winding her up tighter and tighter  
and she felt her walls beginning to flutter as a tremendous orgasm began building in her body.

"Come for me, now, Emma," he commanded darkly, as her body began to shake and her knees nearly gave way. She felt him sink his teeth into her neck and suck hard on the tender flesh, the pain only intensifying the violent waves of her release. Sweet Mother of Christ, he had made her see God. She continued to shudder as he soothed her through the aftershocks with his rough caresses. When the shaking had stopped, he moved his hand around to her belly and reached between her legs to continue caressing her as he ground himself against her ass. He was as hard as a rock and she wanted nothing more in that moment than for him to pull out his cock and fuck her right in the alley.

Instead, he stopped and pulled her panties out of her mouth, still holding her against the wall. "Do we understand each other, now, Swan?" he said, his voice husky and thrillingly sexy in her ear.

"Yyyyes," she stammered out, her voice trembling a little.

"There's a good girl," he said in a satisfied, slightly smug voice. "Oh, and I'll be keeping these as a trophy. Don't bother wearing anything under your skirt the next time you see me."

"You are one kinky bastard," she hissed back at him, still panting.

"So are you love, so are you," he said smugly, then melted into the darkness as she slowly sank to the cold pavement below, thoroughly shaken and still incredibly turned on.


	3. Every Breath You Take

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma expands her investigation into the history of one Father James Hook. At Regina's party, Emma and Father Hook engage in an interesting exchange at the dinner table. Later on, Emma finds herself on her knees before the good priest, but, alas, it is not because he is absolving her of her sins.

Emma had a very hard time sleeping that night. She was keyed up and restless as she tried to process her surreal encounter with the priest. She'd been sexually assaulted and threatened in a dark alley. By the local vicar, no less. The devilishly handsome local vicar. Weren't they supposed to take a vow of celibacy? Though his behavior qualified as outrageous even for non-celibate clergy like Episcopalians or Presbyterians. Well, outrageous by any standard. Shocking, appalling, disgusting, illegal.

And incredibly hot. The fact that he was the village priest made it even hotter. So wicked, so forbidden. A dark, depraved fantasy come true.

She had never been so turned on in her life. She couldn't remember ever having an orgasm so intense. Even as she lay safely in the darkness, she blushed at the mere memory of his hands on her, his fingers roughly probing her and making her scream in ecstasy. And the feeling of him biting down hard and sucking on her neck at the moment of her climax had been indescribable in its pain and bliss. She felt a bit like the heroine in a vampire story. There was always something sexy about those scenes featuring darkly handsome vampires and the pure, innocent virgin swooning as he bites her creamy, white neck. Well, she was no virgin, and certainly far from pure and innocent, but whatever. Just thinking about it got her aroused all over again, and she reached down to touch the still tender flesh between her legs, trying to relive exactly the way his fingers felt on her. She tossed and turned until she finally gave up and popped a Xanax just as it was starting to get light outside.

Although she slept until almost noon the next day, zonked out on the pill, she felt tired and irritable nonetheless. Not surprisingly, he'd left an ugly purple bruise on her neck and covering it up would be challenging. She rummaged through her drawer and pulled out the highest turtleneck sweater she could find, then tied a scarf around it for good measure. Mary Margaret and David still gave her surprised looks when she emerged at nearly one in the afternoon to find them having their lunch.

"Late night, dear?" her mother asked, raising a forkful of salad to her mouth.

"Um, no, not really," Emma mumbled, reaching for the Nespresso machine and popping in a black Ristretto capsule. "Just had trouble sleeping, that's all. Work stuff, you know."

Her parents nodded sympathetically as she made herself a double expresso and felt marginally better after consuming it.

For the next week, the hot priest continued to torment her, driving out all rational thought and draining her focus as she found her mind trapped like a hamster on a wheel. Her tired brain tumble turned in a continuous loop, replaying their encounter over and over, dissecting it, analyzing it, wallowing in it.

And another thing. The constant craving for more. She wasn't done with him, not by a long shot. Her mental torture only intensified when she ran into him despite her nearly comical efforts to avoid his squirm-inducing presence.

The worst moment so far had been the lunch at Granny's. Her parents had insisted on taking her for lunch there one afternoon and she'd been too distracted by reliving her sex scene with the priest for the thousandth time to come up with an excuse. The next thing she knew, the man himself appeared at the table to say hello on his way out and ask her father how he was getting on.

The man had ice cold water in his veins, she was positive. She kept her eyes firmly fixed on her plate, mute unless forced by a direct question to mumble a reply, while he made mundane but very proper conversation with her parents about David's doctors, the weather, and Granny's meatloaf. No one could have guessed that he and Emma had ever exchanged anything other than a polite greeting on one or two occasions. Part of her wanted to bolt and run away from the excruciating situation as fast as she could. But another, debauched part of her desperately wished he would put his hands on her again and ravish her right then and there before she exploded. Was he just going to go on forever pretending nothing had happened? Was she going to let him?

"How are you enjoying your visit, Miss Swan?" he inquired blandly, turning to address her.

"Uh, fine, great," she forced herself to look him in the eye and schooled her face lest her parents suspect something was amiss. She shifted her eyes away from him.

"I'd imagine Storybrooke seems very quiet compared to New York," he continued pleasantly, "are you finding enough to stimulate you here?"

His tone was neutral and his face the picture of innocence but she knew that perverted son of a bitch was smirking at her inside.

"Plenty," she responded, more tartly than she'd intended, this time holding his gaze.

He took his leave then, saying he had an appointment to visit an ailing parishioner, and bidding them to "have a nice day." She wanted to smack him. And not in the good way.

After a week of obsessing unhealthily over the hot priest, Emma shook herself out of her daze and began to stalk her prey – online this time.

She tried googling "James Hook", only to get dozens of irrelevant hits for a lobster and seafood company, a rugby player, and the villain of Peter Pan, among countless others. She tried "Father James Hook" and "James Hook" + catholic priest. All she turned up was a Church of England cathedral dean in the 19th century. Various other permutations were equally useless. Sighing, she tapped her pencil against the keyboard. Then she straightened up and began looking up some telephone contact numbers for the Archdiocese of Portland. Perhaps some old-fashioned sleuthing subterfuge was required. She got through to the Human Resources department and soon had a helpful secretary on the line.

"Oh, hello, this is Jane Wentworth from the law firm of Dewey, Cheatham & Howe. I'm a trust and estates attorney, and I'm representing the Executor of a rather large estate with a specific monetary bequest to a priest we're trying to locate who may be assigned to your diocese," Emma fibbed. "It's quite a large sum of money, and it's rather urgent we track him down."

"Oh, I see," said the helpful voice, "What's his name?"

"James Hook. Father James Hook," Emma answered. "Apparently he was terribly kind to my late client during her declining years." A little embellishment to bolster her credibility never hurt.

"Let me just check our records to see if I can find the name," the secretary said. There was silence, then Emma heard the tapping of a keyboard.

"Oh yes, here it is…." Another long silence ensured.

"Oh dear, I'm sorry to tell you this, but Father Hook is deceased. He passed away, tragically young from the look of things," the lady tut-tutted sympathetically.

Emma swallowed hard. "Are you sure? How did he pass away?"

"Well the information is brief but it appears he drowned swimming off the coast of Africa while he was on a church outreach mission," she said. "The Portland diocese was involved in notifying the next of kin."

"And you're positive there are no other priests by that name?" Emma pressed her.

"Well, this is an international church database, and I have no one else by that name," she responded firmly, "But I can give you contact information for his family. Wouldn't they inherit the bequest intended for Father Hook?"

Emma thanked her and took down the information, not sure if it would be helpful or not.

“I've done my due diligence on this. Before I called, we were told very definitely that he was very much alive and currently serving as the parish priest for St. Aloysius in Storybrooke, Maine. Are you sure there hasn't been some sort of terrible miscommunication or data entry error?" Emma was pushing it, but she needed to know.

More taps on the computer, then she heard the woman's voice come on the line again. "I'm sorry, but that's completely impossible. Until he retired a few months ago, Father Peter DeAngelis from Bangor served in that position on an occasional basis, but currently no replacement has been appointed, and the diocese is considering closing St. Aloysius entirely and merging it with a larger church in a neighboring town. That decision likely won't come for several months."

"I see," said Emma, "Thank you for your time. I really appreciate your help."

"No problem at all, sorry I didn't have better news. Have a nice day!" the secretary rang off.

Emma exhaled explosively. "Well, fuuuuuck me," she said out loud, slumping back in her chair contemplatively. Father James Hook was dead, and according to the Catholic Church, there was no priest in residence at St. Aloysius. Her hot priest was clearly an imposter, but who the fuck was he? And what was he doing in Storybrooke pretending to be its parish priest? The sheer brazenness of it all stupefied her, but, so far, brazenness was a quality that was highly consistent with what she knew about Priest Hook from her own experience. It also made her wonder if he had someone inside the diocese helping him with his elaborate masquerade. It seemed likely. But why? She wondered if he was a wanted criminal hiding out under an assumed identity. That seemed likely as well.

She clicked into one of the databases her firm subscribed to and she spent an entire day reviewing lists of wanted criminals, but turned up no one resembling him. Frustrated, she logged off her computer, closed it and went downstairs to pour herself a glass of wine.

She would need to get closer to the man himself if she was going to take her clandestine investigation any further. Alternatively, she could simply blow the whistle on what she already knew. She didn't want to do that, for … reasons. "I'll find out your secret, you mad bastard," she murmured to herself, "And I plan on having a damn good time doing it."

She laughingly sang Sting's classic ode to a creepy stalker as she walked back upstairs, glass of wine in hand.

"Every breath you take  
Every move you make  
Every bond you break  
Every step you take  
I'll be watching you."

A few days later, Emma found herself dressing for a party. Regina Mills was throwing a huge party to celebrate the 40th birthday party of her husband, Robin Locksley. Regina had been two years ahead of Emma in school, and Emma had always had a bit of a girl crush on her. Regina was beautiful, popular, and smart. She was one of the cool girls. She'd been Class President, head cheerleader, captain of the girls' soccer team, editor of the school newspaper, Homecoming Queen. Emma had both idolized and feared her since she could remember. Now she was the Mayor of Storybrooke, and many thought her next step would be running for the state legislature or even Congress.

Emma knew that le tout Storybrooke would be in attendance, including the new celebrity in town, Father Hook. Or just "Hook" as she now thought of him in her own mind. She shivered a little with excitement at the thought of seeing him again, and observing him at her leisure. She was waiting with no little anticipation for his next move. Either that or it would have to be her next move and she sensed it was better to wait for him. She remembered his sinister instruction to her before he left her in the alley – "Don't bother wearing anything under your skirt the next time you see me."

After thinking it over, she decided to comply with his demand. She wore a seemingly demure looking black knit long sleeved dress trimmed with a crisp white collar and matching white French cuffs. From the waist up, she looked like a librarian, though it clung to her figure and accentuated her breasts. Hopefully, she looked like a sexy librarian. Below the waist, the dress was extremely short, and she was completely naked underneath. She finished the outfit with simple pearl stud earrings and a pair of Jimmy Choo strappy sandals anchored to her feet with a thick gold chain around each slim ankle and sky-high stiletto heels. She hoped Regina had the heat blasting, because she was going to literally freeze her ass off if she didn't.

When Emma and her parents arrived, the cocktail portion of the party was in full swing. Formally clad waiters passed silver trays of wine, champagne and martinis along with various delectable finger foods. The chatter of the crowd was deafening, and Emma spotted at least two open bars. "Yep," she thought, "Storybrooke is gonna get lit tonight for sure." She just hoped no one fell down shit-faced on their way home and froze to death. Like many traditional, WASPy New England communities, the tough Yankees of Storybrooke believed that there was no emotional issue or distressing family situation that could not be dealt with by repression and stoic endurance. And if all else failed, blotted out with alcohol.

She spotted him across the room near the grand piano chatting with Dr. Hopper, the high school psychologist. As usual, he looked devastatingly handsome, his black hair artfully disheveled in the manner of a male model. She tried to remember if she'd seen any hair product in his toiletry collection. Damn, she hadn't. It was natural. Dr. Hopper had a puzzled look on his face and Emma could almost see the wheels turning in his mind, trying to figure out the new priest. Archie was a man possessed of rare perceptiveness himself, and she could tell he sensed something didn't quite add up with Father Fucking Ralph de Bricassart Hook.

Emma had been steadily downing champagne since she arrived to fortify her own nerve. She was very pleasantly buzzed when Regina announced that dinner was going to be served in a candlelit, heated tent set up in back on the giant patio. Emma drifted out to the tent and began searching for her seat among the place cards Regina had set out at every table in elegant black calligraphy. She finally found it in one corner of the tent. Just as she was about to sit down, she looked across the room at the center table and saw Regina glaring directly at her, looking furious. What the hell?

Then she felt her chair being pulled out and heard a voice directly behind her murmur, "May I?" She nearly jumped out of her skins at the sound of his voice. Glancing at the empty place to her left, she saw the place card with the name "Father James Hook" in front of the plate. Feeling a bit panicky, she looked over at Regina, who continued to glare.

to claim the seat to Regina's right, and to pull out Regina's chair for her. That devious, ersatz priest had switched the place cards! Regina had been planning to seat the new Storybrooke conversation piece at a place of honor next to her, and suddenly she was next to good old Archie, while her trophy was over in the corner with Emma. Emma felt a frisson of excitement when she realized what had happened. His cleverness impressed her, and the mere thought he'd done it to be near her aroused her instantly. Then her heart sank a little as she digested the meaning of Regina's menacing stare. Regina clearly thought Emma had switched the place cards. Great, she thought, that's all I need.

Once they were seated, however, he disappointed her, greeting her briefly and formally, then turning to chat politely with the other guests at the table. They included an actuary and his wife, several of the town's municipal bureaucrats, and Sidney Glass, the boring editor of the Storybrooke Mirror. For the first half of the dinner, he ignored her, chatting with the actuary about risk management as if it were the most fascinating topic in the world. Worse was to come.

"Mr. Glass, I'm fascinated by the dedication of journalists such as yourself," Hook said, leaning forward avidly, "Tell us, what were the ten most important editorials you ever wrote, and why?"

Sidney sat up eagerly, almost visibly preening his plumage as he launched into a lengthy monologue about each and every one of his excruciatingly dull sounding editorials. The crying need for a new highway bypass. The urgent necessity of clamping down on unnecessary permissions for curb cuts. Why a simple one-quarter percent local sales tax would solve every fiscal problem in Storybrooke. He then proceeded to detail the particulars at length.  
Emma could feel her eyes glazing over after the first few sentences when suddenly she felt him pressing his leg against her. Adrenaline surged and in seconds she was fully alert and fairly quivering with anticipation at what might or might not be coming next.  
When nothing did, she began to relax again, thinking maybe the leg press would be it for tonight, when she felt his hand on her thigh. She parted her legs a little more, all the while keeping Sidney firmly in view while simultaneously attempting to spear a piece of asparagus with her fork.

She felt his hand roving upward until his fingers brushed lightly up and down the slick wetness that had been seeping from her ever since he sat down. She felt him lightly flicking at her clit and she had to stop herself from closing her eyes and purring, her fork hovering impotently over the forgotten asparagus.

"As I wrote in my editorial last March, curb cuts are destroying the ambience of Storybrooke's historic streets…." Sidney's voice droned on interminably. Emma nodded her head every once in a while and slumped back in her chair, parting her thighs a little wider. She felt him inserting his fingers into her and thrusting shallowly, his hand covered by the swell of the elaborate tablecloth bunting. She moistened her lips and felt her breathing speed up as she tried not to pant.

He kept it up all through dinner, keeping her squirming and aroused but stopping whenever she seemed too excited or on the point of actually coming. By the time Regina tapped on her glass and the toasts to Robin began, she was aching with frustration and praying that he would let her come. All eyes now on Regina and Robin, he became bolder, shoving two fingers all the way inside her while aggressively teasing her pleasure spot until her eyes started to roll back in her head and she could feel herself starting to quiver around him. Don't stop, you motherless prick, don't stop…..she silently screamed at him.

In response, he promptly pulled his fingers out and proceeding to lick the taste of her from his fingers lasciviously, watching her reaction as he did so through narrowed eyes.

She almost cried with frustration and barely resisted the urge to strike him across his smug face. "You fucking bastard," she hissed, glaring at him.

He ignored her. "I see you obeyed my command not to wear anything under your skirt," he whispered into her ear. "There's a good girl." He smoothed down her skirt and gave her an avuncular pat on the thigh before folding his arms across his chest and giving Robin's birthday speech his rapt attention.

She sat beside him, her face, stony, feeling furious and frustrated. As Robin waxed rhapsodic about how blessed he was to have found his soulmate in Regina, Hook leered at her, leaned over, and whispered, sotto voce, "How's the investigation going, Nancy Drew?" His tone was mocking.

"Fuck you," she hissed.

He chuckled. "That's precisely what you've been fantasizing about all week, isn't it, Swan?"

"You wish," she said hollowly.

"You're a poor liar, Swan," he rejoined, taking a sip of wine. "Right now you'd love me to spread you out on this table and fuck your wet, greedy little pussy."

His dirty talk was making her hot all over again and she squirmed again, pressing herself against the seat to relieve some of the pressure building inside her.

"Didn't you take a vow of celibacy? What kind of priest behaves like this?" she said, frustration getting the better of her.

"A wicked one?" he said, amused. "As our Lord Jesus Christ said, I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners to repentance. I'm a sinner like any other man." He shrugged and made a gesture of innocence with his hands.

"A wholly unrepentant, repeat offender, so far as I can see," Emma said matter of factly, throwing her napkin on the table.

He just laughed at her, entirely unconcerned, depraved degenerate that he was.

When the toasts were finally – finally!—concluded, Regina announced the grand finale. She invited the party to adjourn and proceed from the tent and across the lawn to watch a fireworks display that would be launched over the water. Coffee, dessert, and after dinner drinks would be served immediately afterwards. Chairs began scraping as the guests stood up and began drifting to the opening of the tent.

Hook had dematerialized the second Regina made her announcement, and Emma decided if she was going to watch fireworks, she'd need her coat. But as she stepped into the darkness of the patio to head inside to the coat room, she felt him seize her by the wrist and drag her behind him along the dark rear of the house and through a side door. He pulled her into a room that Emma recognized from previous visits as Regina's private office. The room was bathed in shadows, lit only by a reading lamp by the leather chair in the corner.

He closed and locked the door behind them, then pressed her back against the door, his hips grinding against her as he circled her wrists with his hands and pulled them above her head. He secured them with one hand in a vise-like grip and jerked her chin roughly with the other. She could smell the wine on his breath, his face close to hers as he held her, immobile.

She tried to twist away, but he held her firm. "You're a sadistic brute," she spat.

He smirked a little "Oh? I thought that was your type…." Then he captured her lips in a bruising kiss, biting at her lip as he pulled away a few moments later.

"Go ahead, Swan, scream for help if you want," he invited.

She stood there staring at him, mute, for what seemed like an eternity, her eyes hot with desire and her pussy burning with need. She ended the standoff by rutting against him, but he broke away immediately, walking over to one of the windows and yanking free a silk rope curtain tie. Returning to her, he turned her around and pushed her into the door, then pulled her arms behind her back and wrapped the rope around and around her wrists before tying a secure knot. "Oww, that hurts!" she yelped, straining against her bindings.

"Shut the fuck up!" he said, winding his hand through her hair and jerking her away from the door. He dragged her stumblng into the room until they reached Regina's expansive desk. He forced her to her knees, leaned back against the desk, and unbuckled his belt. Silently, he unzipped his black trousers and pulled out his already hard cock.

She licked her lips and swallowed hard as he wrapped his hand around the shaft and pumped it a few times. It became even more engorged and she could see a bead of precum leaking from the tip.

"Are you going to force me to suck your cock?" she whispered, looking up at him partly from fear, partly from lust. She was balancing precariously on her knees with her arms tightly bound behind her he loomed over her.

"Don't be ridiculous," he said sharply. "I'm not going to force you to do anything, Emma. On the contrary, you are going to beg me to permit you to suck my cock."

"Why would I do that?" her voice trembled a little. This new game thrilled and terrified her all at once.

"Because," he said in a throaty voice full of villainous promise, "It's what you want."

God help her, he was right. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to taste him, to swallow his enormous, angry cock into her throat, to be utterly ravished and dominated by him.

As if hypnotized, she cautiously moved her knees closer, the carpet burning her as she did. Then she leaned forward, moistening her lips and opening her mouth, now watering with her hunger for him.

He smacked her away, her cheek stinging from the blow. "Ah, ah, ah, I gave you a command, Swan. Beg me." "Please," she whispered, her knees beginning to ache.

"Please, what?" He was relentless.

She took a deep breath. "Please, I'm begging you to let me suck your cock."

He smiled then. "Good girl." He gave her a gesture of invitation, and she surged forward eagerly, lapping up his salty precum and swirling her tongue around the sensitive head. God, he tasted and smelled delicious, and she felt more than a little dizzy. He kept one hand twisted in her hair to keep her upright and control her head as he began to thrust hard into her mouth. His cock was hitting the back of her throat and causing her to gag. When she tried to pull back, he laughed darkly. "Oh no you don't," he said, tightening his grip on her hair painfully and forcing himself into her throat. She whimpered a little and tried to relax her throat to take him deeper. She struggled to breathe, but he was remorseless in his brutal assault as he fucked her face, chasing his own pleasure and pushing her head down on him.

"That's it, love, suck me dry," he ordered hoarsely. "Take me into your throat and swallow every drop of my come."

She stole a glance up at him silhouetted above her, his face wrecked. He looked like a beautiful, terrible, fallen angel. He looked like Lucifer, thrown down from heaven and cursed by God for the sin of pride.

She heard his breathing become ragged and felt his cock pulsate as he continued to slide into her throat, then released with a deep groan what felt like a gallon of come in a series of hot bursts. She kept sucking, milking him dry as she struggled to swallow it all without choking. When she released him, a few droplets still leaked from her mouth, but she stuck out a pink tongue and lapped up the last of it, spreading it along her lips.

"What a good little cocksucker, you are," he whispered, putting himself back together. He took her hand and helped her get to her feet, her knees numb and a little shaky. He turned her around and untied the rope. Then he moved her back a few steps to lean against the center of the desk and lift her onto the surface. "Spread your legs," he commanded. She obeyed as he seated himself in Regina's leather desk chair and rolled forward.

She lay back on the desk as he grasped one of her legs and held her ankle to his lips.

"The chains around your ankles suit you, my dear," he chuckled, taking the links in his teeth. He kissed the instep of her foot, then moved up her calf, tickling her with feather light kisses before repeating the same treatment to her other leg. Then he draped her legs over his shoulders as he moved between her legs and pressed his face into her.

She clawed at the desk and nearly screamed when she felt his tongue dragging a long, slow stripe through her dripping wet, needy sex. "Your hot cunt tastes and smells delicious," he said appreciatively, inhaling. He teased her already overstimulated, swollen clit unmercifully as she moaned and writhed under his touch. She gasped when she felt his serpent's tongue thrusting into her.

"Please let me come," she pleaded as she felt herself on the verge of shattering in a million pieces.

He rewarded her by thrusting and curling his fingers into her and sucking hard on her clit until her legs began to tremble and jump with the force of her orgasm. She bit down hard on her fist to keep from screaming from the sheer violence of her release. She continued to shudder as he soothed her through it, feeling so giddy as she came down from the high that she wanted to cry with delirious relief. He'd played with her now for hours, arousing her, teasing her, then denying her, and her long delayed climax felt like sweet heavenly mercy releasing her from hellish torment.

He pulled her up from the desk and held her almost tenderly for a few minutes. "Can you walk, Swan?" he asked solicitously.

"I think so, " she nodded.

"Good girl," he said, rearranging her hair to pull it back from her face. He cupped her chin and tilted her face to look at him.  
"For the remainder of the evening, you will eat or drink nothing, do you understand?" he whispered, his hands gripping her shoulders. "I want you to have the taste of my come on your lips for the rest of the evening."

She nodded a little shakily, feeling as if she was being held spellbound by a sorcerer, her will overborne by a superior, mysterious force. "Wait five minutes before you follow me," he instructed. He strode out of the room, silently opened the door, then slipped away.


	4. Hit Me Baby One More Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma obsesses over the hot priest and reflects on her disappointing romantic past. She continues to stalk him and observes him engaging in other activities that seem inconsistent with his apparent vocation. Seeking pastoral care, Emma learns more about what happens to naughty girls. When she expresses remorse for her transgressions, she is given proper penance.

Emma had barely awakened the next morning when she flushed crimson with incredulity and embarrassment at what had happened to her at the party the night before. She'd allowed, no encouraged, the village priest to stroke and play with her private parts for hours in a public place, in full view of her parents, her friends, and everyone she had known for her entire life. He'd brought her to the edge of orgasm repeatedly, only to deny her at the last minute and leave her groin knotted and aching with frustration. He'd tied her up and brutally throat-fucked her, but only after she had literally begged him while on her knees. Then he had spread her out right on top of Regina Mills' priceless Louis XVI desk and eaten her pussy until she had shattered, her climax all the more intense for having being repeatedly denied and delayed. The fireworks across the lawn could not possibly have been nearly as loud or dazzling as the fireworks in her own head. She'd been nearly sobbing with shock and relief and almost unable to walk afterward, ducking into the nearest powder room to wipe away her tears, repair her makeup, and recover herself before rejoining the party.

 

She had never been more sexually aroused or satisfied in her life. She had never been more in the moment. Every single nerve ending in her body had seemed to be standing on end, fully alert to every sensation, every dimension. For the first time she could recall, including and especially during, sex, she had felt awake. Fuckstruck didn't even begin to cover it. She stretched decadently under the covers, smiling at the memories. She ran her tongue over her still swollen lips, trying to taste the lingering remains of him. Her knees still burned from the carpet. She reveled in the sensation, as well as the lingering soreness in her throat, shoulders and wrists from where he had bound her. She reached down and gingerly explored herself between her legs, still sticky from her own release, feeling the sensitive, abused tissues. She tingled with renewed longing for his hands and mouth on her as she began to make little circles around her clit. As she rubbed harder, panting, she tried to remember every detail of the filthy things he had done to her body already. Then she began to fantasize about all the even filthier, even more depraved, things she was already wishing he would do…. He made her want to do things she had only ever read about in erotic fiction and the internet. The priest had been right about Emma's perennial disappointment with the men she'd had in her life. Certainly her strong personality and intellect were off-putting to many men. Very, very few could stand up to the gale force of her formidable persona. And then she was very particular herself about her own idiosyncratic aesthetic and intellectual preferences. Even an otherwise attractive man could turn her off so easily with just the smallest of mistakes or absentminded omissions. Leaving the toilet seat up, for example. Instant dealbreaker. Presenting her with a bouquet of flowers that included filler flowers like carnations. Wearing sandals. Jewelry other than a watch and signet ring or cheap cologne. Tattoos. Using "impact" as a verb, or failure to use the Oxford comma in a sentence. A blind date who, when she'd told him she was from a town called Storybrooke, asked her "Where's that at?", and had been invited to leave immediately thereafter. One devastatingly handsome suitor had her swooning when he brought her a gorgeous bouquet of perfect pink peonies. For a few breathless moments, she'd thought surely she'd found "the one." That is, until she opened his handwritten card and read "To my darling Emma. How rare to find a woman who is not only beautiful, but intelligent to." 

First, sentences that ended with a preposition. Then, T-O instead of T-O-O. She just couldn't live with that. It was TOO much.

Another boyfriend had succeeded in pleasing her pickiness for nearly two months when she had invited him to be her escort at a black tie fundraiser for the New York City Ballet. When he had shown up with a pre-tied black tie, she'd wanted to be sick, so great was her disappointment. The entire evening had been ruined. She just couldn't avert her eyes from that tie. Did this oaf not realize the total sexiness of a real bowtie later in the evening when it was, umm, untied? It was like he had a piece of spinach in his teeth. Which was a good thing, possibly, as it had diverted her mind from her parallel disappointment that he had failed to wear a proper black formal jacket with either a peak or a shawl (her debonair favorite) collar. He was wearing a fucking notch collar! Doesn't he know the difference? Sure, she was not expecting a normal guy to reach the sartorial sublimity of Eddie Redmayne on the Red Carpet or the style perfection of an eternal fashion icon like David Bowie or Bryan Ferry, but couldn't he even get the basics right?

Her girlfriends had ridiculed her mercilessly, comparing her to Jerry in Seinfeld, whose long list of stupid, picky reasons for breaking up with every beautiful girl he dated on the show included his incomprehension when he saw one spearing her peas individually with a fork at dinner. They'd tried to persuade her that every man was a possible "fixer upper", and she was regretfully beginning to think they were right.  
Sex never lived up to her fantasies, either, even if she occasionally felt herself to be in love, and even if her partner was a considerate and experienced lover. She always found herself giving them directions. "A little to the left. Okay, that's good. Now could you add a finger? Okay, get up on your hands now." There was always a part of her that was not present in the moment. Instead, she was haunted by the superior, critical, ironic commentator part of her that hovered above her as she lay entangled with her lover, making sardonic remarks and observing how truly ridiculous they looked. It's not like she hadn't been open to adventure and experimentation with sex to overcome it, either. It's just that it had caused the little voice to taunt her even more. Perhaps she needed therapy.

 

Until him. That hot, perverted priest had entirely driven out the annoying little voice. He'd dominated her will and her caustic, carping mind with his brutal assertiveness and brazen self-assurance. He'd so overwhelmed and enveloped her with unfamiliar, pulsing sensations and did such filthy, unthinkable things to her that she could focus on nothing but him, and the million little feelings he aroused in every tiny fiber of her body. He had taken control and she'd been – finally—relieved of command. It had been incredibly exciting. But it had been oddly peaceful and liberating too. He was like her own personal Ecstasy.

 

She realized in the coming days that she was entirely obsessed with him. She found herself rereading The Thorn Birds for one thing. She'd also downloaded a British television miniseries called Grantchester featuring a crime-solving, hot priest with a drinking problem and a weakness for women named Sidney Chambers. She noticed with satisfaction that even the basically good and decent Sidney had fallen to the sin of fornication by Episode 5. And sometimes she still reran the scene in Episode 2 when the tall, handsome, and extremely well-built actor cast as Sidney is shown scything the tall grass in the churchyard in his undershirt. She would imagine the same scene with Father Hook and the next thing she knew she'd be touching herself again.  
As days turned into weeks, however, her obsession and lust began to torment her as Hook steadfastly ignored her. He was perfectly polite as always, but it was if they were nodding acquaintances again, as if what had happened was only a dirty dream in her imagination. She'd run into him many times at the gym, at the bar at Tony's, at church, and even been seated next to him at dinner parties. But so far nothing had broken through his icy reserve.  
She wondered if he still wanted her, or fantasized about her, but had decided that their illicit sexual encounters were simply too dangerous. Although it was quite likely and would have been entirely rational on his part, she had no real way of knowing, and that tormented her. As did her continuing inability to turn up any additional information on who he really was. Sometimes she felt angry, and thought of telling Graham and everyone else what she knew about his apparently false identity, what he had done, but something always stopped her. Well, not "something", but rather her unwillingness to contemplate never seeing him again.

 

Feeling increasingly desperate, she began to take more overt measures. She would deliberately brush up against him on occasion, but he stepped away politely, murmuring "pardon" or "excuse me". She pushed a pair of her lacy panties into the rectory mailbox after spraying them with Carnal Flower. She even broke into the rectory again – twice. The first time, she opened his bottle of The Prisoner, poured a glass, and drained it, then left the used glass on the drainboard next to the corked wine. Another time she ripped the cover off of his copy of Great Expectations, ripped it down the middle, and left it lying on the bed.  
No response.

 

She had turned into a creepy stalker. She kept singing The Police to herself. Every step you take…every vow you break…every smile you fake…I'll be watching you. She especially liked the line "every vow you break" with savage appreciation as she eyed the hot priest who now ignored her.

 

One day, utterly frustrated, she'd decided to go on a run in a particularly isolated part of the forest. She would run down to a cave she and her friends used to play in as children. They'd called it the "Cave of Wonders." As she approached it, she suddenly stopped dead, alerted by the sound of a shot nearby. It was hunting season still, so she was immediately cautious. Stepping back, she listened for more shots, then followed the sounds carefully, pulling her field glasses out of her fannypack as she moved through the trees. She caught sight of a figure in the distance and put the glasses to her eyes, crouching behind some bushes.  
It was him. And he was reloading an extremely powerful-looking rifle with a telescopic site on it. Moving closer, Emma tried to examine the gun more closely. From where she could see, it looked like a bolt-action 660 mm Arctic Warfare rifle. Standard issue for British military snipers, she knew.

 

He was using a flattened rock to position the gun on its tripod. After reloading, she watched as he lay on his belly, adjusted the sighting, then began firing at a target located at least 500 yards away. She could barely see it even with her field glasses.  
He clearly knew what he was doing and she thought back to the mysterious rifle cleaning kit she'd seen at the rectory. Obviously, he had another hiding place for the rifle itself. Watching his confidence with the gun, she felt a sudden gush of wetness between her thighs and she briefly thought about surprising him but then thought better of it. God, Emma, she said to herself, you are one sick puppy.  
But she couldn't stop herself from watching him lustfully from afar, too turned on to move and pressing her thighs together reflexively, almost feeling like she was about to come just from watching him as he expertly broke down the rifle into pieces and stowed it into a waiting case, then picked up the spent shell casings and dropped them into his pocket. Then he disappeared through the woods. Presumably, he was on his way back to wherever he had hidden his car.  
She waited a good, long time before she moved, almost frozen by the time she finally did start walking. She headed toward the direction he'd been shooting, as he'd headed away from it. She found the target and examined it. Nearly every shot had been a bullseye or close to it. Damn.

 

She ran back to the rock where he'd set up the rifle and began hunting in the snow systematically. It took her a while, but she finally found one spent shell casing he'd missed. She slipped it into her pocket.  
The next day, she sealed it in an envelope and left it for him on his desk at the church.

 

Then, she began preparing for her next move.

 

When she finally made her move, several days had passed since she caught him at target practice. He continued to keep his distance, but she'd caught a couple of burning glances in her direction from him that tipped her off that she was getting under his skin. He looked infuriated She had decided nothing short of the boldest of actions was required.

 

"No half-measures," as Mike Ermentrout tells Walter White in Breaking Bad, her favorite show.

 

Damn right. She might go down in flames, but at the very least she was confident the brazenness of her actions would appeal to him.

 

The following Thursday, the good Father was occupied with Evening Prayers and Confession. Shortly before she expected him to return to her office, Emma arrived, took off her concealing hat and large flapping wool coat, and seated herself in a chair in front of the desk in his office and waited.

 

She was dressed rather unusually – and entirely provocatively—for Emma. Her inspiration had been Britney circa 1999 – the Baby, One More Time video. She was wearing a very short, pleated plaid Catholic schoolgirl type skirt, a black lace push-up bra, and a white cotton blouse with the tails tied up under her breasts, exposing her midriff. Her blond hair was plaited in two braids tied with pink ribbons on either side of her head. Instead of knee socks and stacked heel shoes, however, she sported a pair of extremely high stiletto heeled black suede Stuart Weitzman boots with leather laces that crisscrossed up her calves and tied just under the knee.

 

The sound of his footsteps echoing down the long hallway, along with the anticipation of seeing him and the fear of what she was about to do, what might happen, had her soaking wet before he'd even opened the door. Cccrrreeaakk. She nearly jumped out of her skin as she heard the door slowly open behind her, but she didn't move a muscle, or turn her head to look at him. She heard him stop, then she could hear him standing behind her, breathing steadily. Her heart raced. Then after a long pause, she heard the door creak again and softly click shut. He stepped softly into her view, then pulled his chair out, and seated himself behind the desk without saying a word. He regarded her through hooded eyes, tenting his fingers as he observed her quietly. She thought she saw him swallow hard a couple of times as she watched his mind whir.

 

He slowly licked along his lower lip and exhaled audibly. "Miss Swan," he said, trying to keep his voice steady, "Are you in need of pastoral care?" A ghost of a smirk flickered across his face.  
Feeling emboldened, Emma pouted her lips and then sucked her fingers as she regarded the priest, pretending to think about what she was going to say. Removing her fingers, she tugged on one of her braids, then leaned over the desk to say in a breathy, girlish voice, "I've been very, very naughty."

 

"Oh?" he said in an interested voice, his eyes darkening with lust, "How have you been naughty?" His voice no longer sounded politely impersonal. Instead, he was using the dark, commanding voice he had used in the alley and at Regina's party. The voice of her Master.

 

"You know," she pouted, slumping back in her chair, letting her legs fall apart so that he could get a good eyeful of her wet, panty-clad crotch.

"I do," he acknowledged in a disapproving, threatening tone. "You've been very naughty indeed. Do you remember what I told you happens to naughty little girls?"

"They get spanked and sent to bed without their suppers?" Emma tried not to sound hopeful. "Is that all, Hook?" she continued in a deliberately bratty voice as she played with her braids and hooked one leg over the arm of the chair. She was baiting him now.

"That's Father Hook, to you, young lady," he warned, menacingly. "I won't tolerate disrespect."

 

She stood up then, placed both her hands on the desk, and leaned toward him over the desk. He had an eyeful of cleavage and black lace as she provocatively moistened her pink lips. "Would it be alright if I called you Father?"

Before he could answer, she leaned even further over the desk, so far she was falling out of her shirt. "Or how about just Daddy?" She smirked at him before falling back into her seat, deliberately behaving like a brat. She hooked her leg over the seat arm and began to touch herself through her panties.

As turned on as she was, she could see that he was turned on too and was struggling to maintain his iron control. "Stop touching yourself immediately," he commanded harshly.

 

She immediately ceased, pouting, as he continued. "You are not to touch yourself – ever – without my permission, do you understand?"

 

"Yes, Sir," she said, hanging her head and looking up at him through her lashes.

 

He pulled open his center desk drawer and drew out a wooden school ruler. The same exact kind of ruler she'd had to keep in her desk all through grade school. He smacked it hard across his palm a few times experimentally, causing Emma to jump a little with fear and excitement. Then he carefully placed it on the desk.

"Stand up," he commanded. She rose. "Take off your shirt." She slowly untied the tails of her blouse, then unbuttoned the buttons and slipped it off her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

"Good," he said, approvingly, leaning back in his chair. "Now take off your bra. I want to see your breasts."

She reached around and unhooked her bra, then pulled it off and stood before him, her nipples pebbling in the cool air. She had to clench her thighs together to relieve the burning between them as he watched her with eyes full of predatory desire, his face otherwise controlled.

He stood up slowly, then walked with light, deliberate steps to pull her into the center of the room. He stalked around her several times, examining her with a burning intense stare as he inspected her breasts.  
After several turns, he stopped and cupped her breasts, testing their weight. He kneaded them gently before taking her hard nipples between his thumb and forefingers, squeezing them and then running his index fingers around them tantalizingly as she groaned and arched into his touch.

"Don't move," he admonished her. "You have beautiful tits, Swan," he said appraisingly. "Full, perfectly round and symmetrical. Lovely, pert pink nipples. So young and innocent…" He tweaked her nipples almost painfully as she gasped and tried not writhe, her pussy wet and clenching with need, praying he'd touch her there.

 

He trailed his hands from her neck, down along her shoulders, then slowly down her breasts and belly before pulling at the waistband of her skirt. "Raise your skirt," he ordered.

 

She could feel another gush of wetness at his words. She obediently pulled the skirt up and he dropped to one knee and placed his hands on her ass. He pressed his mouth to her white cotton panties and inhaled, then nipped at her clit through the fabric. She flinched and clenched her thighs, shuddering with arousal.

 

"Virginal white cotton panties – nice touch," he said.

 

"I thought they went with the outfit," she said sincerely, still panting and trying not to thrust her pelvis against his mouth.

 

He leaned back again, a slightly surprised look on his face. "And you've gotten a Brazilian?"

 

"Like I said, it goes with the outfit," she said, her eyes glazed with longing as she looked at him. The Brazilian wax job had hurt like a bitch but it had been worth it. She was entirely hairless down there and looked either like a prepubescent girl or a porn star. Either would do for her purposes.

 

"So naughty," he breathed, "Such a dirty, filthy little girl you are," he said, flicking her wet panty crotch with his fingers.

 

He stood up then, walked behind her, then spun her around and stood her in front of the mirror mounted on the wall. He reached his hand into her panties and fingered her swollen clit as she leaned back against him, closing her eyes and moaning with relief as she writhed against him.

 

"Open your eyes, Swan," he ordered, "Look at what I do to you."

 

She did as she was told and opened her eyes to drink in the pornographic sight of his big hand plunged into her virginal white cotton panties and delving aggressively between her legs, probing her roughly as she gasped and writhed.  
He deftly played with her, bringing her right up to the brink then taking his hand away and she cried out in frustration. He ignored her as he dropped back to one knee and took the top of her panties between his teeth and tugged them down. She practically came right then and there.

 

"Please, please touch me again," she begged, closing her eyes, nearly in pain with want. "Please, I need to come.

 

"No, Swan, you're a very naughty girl and you'll take your punishment before I'll even consider letting you come," he chastised, smoothly pulling her panties the rest of the way down with his hands. She stepped out of them, then reached between her legs, not to make herself come, but just to press her hand against her dripping folds to ease the ache.

 

He slapped her hand away. "I told you not to touch yourself!" he said sternly. She put her hands guiltily behind her back and awaited his next command.

 

"That will cost you. Walk over to the desk, bend over and place your elbows on the surface." His voice was like a drug, and she could feel herself moving toward the desk as if propelled by a force outside her body. She bent over obediently and placed her elbows as instructed. The waiting, the anticipation, the fear of what was coming next drove her nearly insane with lust, and she could feel the moisture dripping down her legs. Every nerve was screaming as she struggled to control herself, imagining what feelings he might awaken in her, what he might do to her, whether she'd be able to bear it. She could feel herself pulsing with need, even more than the night of Regina's party.

 

He walked slowly over to the desk, then picked up the wooden ruler, and walked back around behind her. She stood as still as she could, quivering with fear and excitement as he tantalized her by drawing out the process and standing silently behind her.

 

"I was going to go easy on you for your many transgressions, Swan, and confine your punishment to ten strokes only. But you've been so very deliberately wicked and disobedient, I regret I have no choice but to double the number to twenty," he said, sounding not at all regretful. He suddenly smacked the ruler against his hand again, causing her to jump.

 

He carefully raised her skirt and held it gathered in his left hand. She braced herself. She heard the sound of the ruler as it slammed into her tender skin even before she felt the shock of the first, staggering bloom of sharp pain. She cried out and struggled not to move. "One," he said quietly. Three more cracks followed in quick succession, each delivered with precision to a different, tender part of her ass. Tears were leaking from her eyes as her body went on high alert, adrenaline electrifying every nerve. After the fifth, he stopped and began to rub her flaming skin with his warm, comforting hand, soothing the sting and causing another warm gush of liquid between her legs. His hands roved down her cleft and between her legs as he teased her clit and sank his fingers into her cunt, curling them just the way that made her groan with need. The stinging pain and the throbbing pleasure began to merge into one as she involuntarily pressed against his hand.

 

"What a wanton little trollop you are," he said, his voice tickling her like a caress as he played with her, "You were already wet when I walked into the room, and now you're dripping down your thighs. I'm beginning to think you're enjoying your punishment."  
God, yes, she was enjoying it. But just as she began to relax he removed his hand and delivered four more sharp blows, this time to her sensitive upper thighs, causing her to scream in pain and him to hiss with disapproval.  
He stopped for a moment and she could hear him moving in the room behind her in the room. Her heart leapt with anticipation about what he would do next, then she gasped as he stuffed her panties into her mouth to quiet her. "Come now, Swan, I expected more from you. Keep quiet."

 

She focused hard on breathing, the same way she had done the last time she had run the New York Marathon, her lungs and quads burning by the time she'd crossed the finish line. This was no different, and she knew she could do it. But before she could completely regain her physical composure, he began raining down more blows on her already tender backside. She was sobbing now as her ass and upper thighs throbbed with pain and her cunt with need, but she refused to move any more than the force of the blows required. Even her scalp and the soles of her feet were tingling with sensation. Her mind was blank save for anything other than sensation, whichever sensation he permitted her to experience at any one moment. Her body, her experience, and he 

 

Her mind had floated off into an endorphin-induced trance when she heard him say, finally, "Twenty." She felt triumphant and had a transitory impulse to high five herself, but she stubbornly held her position and waited for his next command.

 

"What do you say, Swan?" he asked her, his hand on the small of her back, his voice quietly threatening.

 

Her mind, which had been on a long-needed vacation, suddenly swung into high level survival mode.

 

"Thank you?" she said, her voice quavering.

 

"Thank you, what?" he shot back, pressing her harder.

 

"Thank you, Sir?" she answered.

 

He relaxed his hold on her and stepped back.

 

"Very good," he said approvingly, flooding her with completely irrational feelings of elation. "Now walk over to the ottoman in front of the reading chair, kneel down in front of it, and lie down on it. Pull your skirt up around your waist."  
Part of her wanted to rejoice with happiness at the possible implications of this. The other, cautious part of her quavered with fear. But she quietly walked over to the ottoman and did exactly as he had ordered her. As she leaned over the ottoman and raised her skirt, she stuck her throbbing ass in the air. Every one of her senses seemed especially sensitized. She could every creak of the floorboard as he walked, the soft whoosh of the heating vents. She could smell the musty odor of the old upholstery, and the subtle fragrance of the cologne he wore. She could feel every indentation and scar in the ancient leather of the ottoman to which she clung. When she closed her eyes, she could see exploding pinwheels of color and pattern just like she had the one time she'd tried LSD in college.

 

She listened in a heightened state of awareness as he walked over to her and stood behind her. She heard a rustling sound as loud as a roar to her sensitive hearing as he unzipped and (she hoped) pulled his cock out. She was throbbing with desire, her body so alight with desire that she was certain that she would go up in flames at any moment if he didn't give her what she needed – no, what she craved.  
She was trembling with need as she felt him rub the wide tip of his shaft against her aching wetness and she bit her lip to keep herself from whimpering with need. She knew that would only prolong her suffering. She steeled herself not to rut back against him as he continued to rub himself on her, teasing her into a near frenzy, her mind and body crackling like dry tinder.  
"Please," she finally whispered, her need unbearable.

 

"Please, what?" he asked, implacable.

 

"Please, Sir," she tried helplessly.

 

"What do you want?" he said, almost tenderly as he caressed her throbbing ass.

 

"Please, please put your cock in me, Sir," she implored, nearly sobbing with her aching desire.

 

"Well, since you put it so nicely," he said approvingly. He sank his cock fully into her as she cried out with pleasure and pain as he entered her. She was ready, so ready for him but still she stretched to accommodate the size and hardness of his entire length and girth. When he bottomed out and hit her cervix, she cried out and tried to wiggle away but he grasped her hips and pulled her hard against him as she struggled. He smacked her already sore ass a few times and she relaxed, feeling him twitching inside her.

 

She relaxed around him, and she could hear him calming his breathing as he pulled out of her and began teasing her entrance, entering and retreating just a few inches, repeatedly, tantalizing her most sensitive spot as she gritted her teeth and tried not to rut back against him. It drove her mad with pleasure yet denied her the full, merciless thrusts she craved.

 

"What do you want?" he whispered, pulling back again, his cock twitching.

 

"Please fuck me hard, Sir," she rasped, the words torn from her throat. No longer able to control herself she rutted back against him just as he slammed into her hard. "Oh God, oh god, oh god," she sobbed, practically weeping with gratitude as she clenched around his throbbing cock and he pounded into her over and over.

 

"I tried to stop myself," he said despairingly into her ear as he covered her with his body, "But I couldn't. I've wanted to fuck your hot, wet little cunt since I first laid eyes on you….you're mine now, Swan, and I feel sorry for you…." He reached between her legs and all it took was the merest touch of his fingers to send her exploding into a million pieces, riding the aftershocks until she exploded yet again in another mind-blowing orgasm.  
He followed her, unable to hold back a second longer, his cock pulsing as he came hard, cursing filthy endearments, and she could feel him filling her with his sticky pleasure, already weeping with relief and a twisted sense of gratitude. As his body stilled, she lay there in an endorphin-induced stupor, crying and laughing at the same time, the reactions of a person experiencing mild shock.

 

Realizing what was happening, he sat back and pulled her to him, cradling her head on his chest and rocking her head on his chest as she subsided into sobs. "I ddd-ont know why I'm crying," she babbled, still gripped by the intensity of the experience.

 

"I'm so sorry, Swan, was I too rough with you?" he crooned, caressing her face with his hand. "I don't know why I'm like this…I won't do it again."

 

She drew back from him, then, aghast. "No! Please don't say that…." She sobbed harder.

 

"What?" he said in a surprised voice his face ashen.

Her voice was shaky as she groped for the right words. "Th—th-that was the…well, the most incredible experience of my life," she said, her voice faltering but stronger with every word. "I don't want you stop. I mean it," she said, more firmly.  
Then she looked up into his eyes. "Please, Sir," she said. His eyes darkened immediately in response.

 

He held her for a long time. He felt warm and safe and she had clung to him for a long, long time, neither of them speaking. She didn't want to ruin the exquisiteness or singularity of the experience by talking about it. This wasn't something to be understood and categorized intellectually or overanalyzed with spoken words or the hard light of irony and pragmatism. That would ruin it. That would ruin everything. She wasn't sure which one of them was the more shaken by the experience.

Nonetheless, when she finally said goodbye and slipped away, she didn't leave the church immediately. Instead, she bolted into a bathroom off the narthex and into a stall. Opening her purse, she took something out, put her leg up onto the toilet, and stuck the swab up into her vagina. She swabbed around to make sure she had an adequate semen sample, then pulled it out and dropped it into a waiting plastic bag. She sealed it tight, placed it carefully in a zippered compartment of her purse, and stole away from the church into the coldness and darkness of the winter night.


	5. Suck My Kiss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Father Hook takes Emma for a little ride.

The next morning, Emma found herself in front of her bathroom mirror with the door locked as she inspected the red, rectangular bruises on her ass and thighs. They weren't too bad and she expected they would fade in a few days. She knew he hadn't hit her as hard as he could have. If he had, he would most likely have broken the ruler. Nonetheless, she already felt sore and winced a little when the hot water from the shower hit her still tender flesh. Drying off afterward, she inspected herself one more time, smiling a little at the welts. He had marked her, and just thinking about what he had done to her made her instantly wet again.

She tried not to think about him too much as she went about her daily routine, but was conscious of being in a state of mild arousal and intense longing all day. Her first errand of the day made that especially difficult. She had taken the bagged semen swab from the previous night's activities and sealed it in a smaller envelope with a personal note, then taken it to the UPS store. There, after a few minutes of internal debate and hesitation, she sealed it into a Next Day Air envelope, filled out the destination address in Quantico, Virginia, and handed it to the clerk. She used her credit card.

As she left the store, she felt a stab of guilt at what she'd chosen to do. It was sneaky and underhanded, and maybe she would learn things she'd rather not know. But she set her chin in grim determination. Her curiosity as well as her insatiable sexual obsession with him had already made her cross way too many boundaries to turn back now. Besides, she thought, the devious bastard deserved it. He hadn't used a condom! What kind of guy did that? The incongruity of the image made her grin a little. It was hard to reconcile the recklessness of both their actions with any notion of safe, responsible sex and the use of condoms. The words "safe" and "responsible" simply had no place in their dark relationship.

Needing an outlet for her frustration, she decided to hit the gym and finish her workout with some stretching in the midday yoga class. As she hoisted her ass up in the air in a rather compromising position, she became aware of a pair of hungry eyes on her. She turned her head slightly and looked behind her through her braced arms to see him standing directly behind her and looking at her through the clear glass studio window like she was dinner.

She flushed, got up, and grabbed her towel. As she bolted through the door towards the locker room, he was suddenly in front of her, invading her personal space, his head bent toward hers and his breath tickling her ear as he murmured, "your ass gives me an instant hard-on, Swan. I'd like to see you in the downward facing dog position in my office sometime." He grinned at her wolfishly as he raised a suggestive eyebrow at her.

She was flooded with an immediate sensation of wetness between her thighs. Before she could collect herself to give him a pert reply, he moved past her, leaving her quivering slightly, her legs feeling like jelly.

_Get a grip Swan!_ She scolded herself. She took a long shower, then headed over to Granny's to order herself a salad. She was grimacing as she eased her sore backside onto the counter stool when she heard his voice again, just behind her. "Feeling a little tender, Swan?" His voice was mocking.

She jumped a little. "Stop sneaking up on me like that!" she hissed.

He just laughed. "Tonight. Eight o'clock. Be sitting at the bar at Tony's"

"Why would I do that?" she asked, trying unsuccessfully to sound bored. Instead, she sounded petulant.

"Because I said so," he commanded using his Master voice. "And because you want it desperately."

"I'm so transparent, am I, that you think that?" she demanded.

"You're rubbing yourself against your stool to relieve the ache. I can see it. Just listening to my voice gets you wet. And I've only barely grazed the surface of your dark, dirty fantasies." He shrugged.

Emma blushed furiously, realizing what she'd been doing without having been conscious of doing it.

He chuckled softly again. "You're so adorable when you blush – almost _schoolgirlish_ I would say. Your blushes make me want to do _terrible_ things to you."

"Haven't you already done terrible things to me?" she murmured silkily, looking at him sideways, her eyes narrowed and cat-like.

"Not _nearly_ as filthy as I plan to do," his hot breath tickled her neck and she shivered a little. "Not even close to the depraved things that you _deserve and crave._ You're a bad, bad girl and your punishment is _far_ from over.

His reward was her sharp intake of breath as she began to breathe more heavily, her agitation and excitement evident, her mind swimming helplessly as she felt her blood pounding with arousal.

"Remember, Tony's at 8," he raised his voice a little, his tone peremptory. Dropping his voice, his next words dripped with a combination of sexuality and menace. " _I want to play with you._ " He laughed to himself, gave her breast a surreptitious tweak that cause her to yelp a little, then slithered away.

She just sat there, infuriated, humiliated, and speechless. Both of them knew she'd be at Tony's at eight tonight. She wouldn't be able to stop herself.

At ten minutes past eight later that evening, Emma was seated on another barstool, already annoyed and excited. Where was he? And what devious scheme had he contrived for her tonight?

She sipped her wine and noticed a commotion near the front entrance of the restaurant. It was Mr. Gold and his much younger, second wife, Belle, arriving for what seemed a celebratory dinner. The maître d', the host, and even Tony himself fell all over themselves welcoming the great man and offering him felicitations on what appeared to be the couple's wedding anniversary.

Emma didn't much like Gold. He had been the wealthiest man in town for as long as Emma remembered and he was extremely cold, sinister even. Well, to everyone else he was cold, but he seemed to dote on Belle. Emma had known Belle for a long time as well, they were close in age, and she could not for the life of her understand her attraction to Gold. Although in light of her own recent illicit and downright twisted sexual relationship, maybe she understood a bit better. There was no denying Gold possessed a certain dark charisma. Maybe he tied Belle up and did dirty, filthy things to her in bed that drove her crazy with lust. Emma shifted her eyes guiltily. _What was wrong with her?_

She watched as the couple was shown to one of the more intimate private dining rooms, then reached for her phone as she heard the buzz of an incoming text.

The sender's number was unfamiliar, but the text was crystal clear.

_Meet me behind the restaurant in 5._

Her heart lurched. Grinning, she finished her wine, left a twenty dollar bill on the bar, and slipped out the back.

Standing in the dark and seemingly deserted back parking lot behind Tony's, Emma shivered a little with the cold and a little frisson of fear. _What did that pervert have in store for her tonight?_ She wondered a little hysterically if whips would be on the menu.

A low rumble interrupted her thoughts as a flash red sports car pulled up in front of her and stopped.

She stood there waiting, wondering what was up.

The dark tinted window began to roll down, and a moment later, she saw the handsome priest smirking at her.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he grinned at her, "Get in!"

Hopping into the passenger seat, she lowered the harness just as he tore out of the lot and out onto the main highway, tires squealing.

"Wait a minute – isn't this _Mr. Gold's Lamborghini?_ " Her voice was incredulous.

"It is indeed," he answered smugly. "I thought I'd borrow it for a while, as he doesn't seem to be using it at the moment. I find him to be a very … _interesting_ … man, and I've been observing him from a distance."

She tried to gauge whether he was joking. "You mean he _gave_ you the keys?' Her voice was skeptical. "Or did you hotwire the car?"

"No, love, of course not. Inattentive valet at the valet stand. It was a no brainer." He casually reached over with his right hand to run his hand up her skirt. He purred a little when his hand discovered her thigh-high stockings, but then he tsked with displeasure as his roving, insolent fingers brushed against the silk of her panties."

"You've broken yet another rule, Swan," he said disapprovingly as he smoothly shifted gears. "Whatever shall I do with you?" He moved his gloved fingers under the panty crotch and began roughly probing her, thrusting his fingers in and out of her, causing Emma's head to loll back against the seat, close her eyes, and moan with pleasure.

She could feel the g forces pressing her into the seat as he reached the open highway outside of town and tore along the winding mountain roads at a breakneck speed, tires squealing as they rounded curves.

"For God's sake, slow down! You're scaring me," she exclaimed, her eyes snapping open with alarm.

"Don't you trust me?" he said, feigned hurt in his voice.

"Not even the least little bit," she breathed, shifting in her seat to grant him easier access.

"Especially when you're…distracted."

He withdrew his hand, causing her to moan again, this time with displeasure. He ignored her and concentrated on his Gran Prix level driving performance. Emma tried to master her fear and watched him as he drove.

"Aren't you worried you'll be caught? Why do you persist in taking such insane risks?" She couldn't keep down her curiosity.

"It makes me feel alive," he said honestly, glancing in her direction for a few moments before turning his attention back to the road. "I guess you could describe me as a bit of thrillseeker. Perhaps I should try skydiving?"

Near the summit, he turned the car into a large parking lot near a campground used in the season by summer tourists, now deserted. He amused himself and terrified her as he proceeded to put the powerful car through its paces, zigzagging madly and spinning the car in a series of 180s and 360s as his whim took him.

Emma kept her cool and maintained what she hoped was a calm and icy demeanor until he tired of his game and pulled the car behind a copse of trees, well concealed from the highway. He killed the lights but left the engine running before turning to her in the partial darkness, his eyes glittering with lust and dark design.

"You've had training," she said matter-of-factly. "You drive like a professional. Do they teach you that in priest school?"

He ignored her question. Instead, he leaned towards her and inhaled deeply. "Why, Swan, you've changed your perfume – _Portrait_ _of a Lady_ unless I miss my guess. How delightfully ironic, since you and I both know you're very far from being a lady, don't we?" She stared at him balefully.

He tugged at the index finger of his glove with his teeth, then slowly and deliberately pulled each finger free and slipped his hand from the confines of the leather. Her breathing sped up again as he gently reached over and traced his index finger along her cheeks before moving to press her lower lip down insistently. He inserted first one finger, then another into her mouth and she sucked on them obediently for a few minutes, neither speaking. Pulling his fingers free, he resumed his roaming, moving his fingers lightly down her throat and into the collar of her blouse. Pushing under the lace of her bra, he smiled with satisfaction when he reached the erect nipple, rubbing and pinching until she gasped a little before moving his attentions to the second. She arched her back, thrusting into his touch.

He pulled away a little and took her chin in his hand, grasping her firmly and turning her head to look into his eyes.

"Tell me what happens to naughty girls, Swan?" he said throatily.

"They get spanked," she answered, squirming with heat and excitement.

"Or worse," he said, menacingly. Her heart almost leapt out of her chest with fear and excitement, the fear arousing her in a visceral, primal way.

"And what did I do to you after I spanked you?" he queried. Christ, he was like an exam proctor.

"You fucked me." She said matter-of-factly, reaching to pull him toward her. He stopped her with a firm, admonishing hand against her chest.

"And you want me to fuck you again, is that right?"

She just stared at him, panting, her legs falling open as she arched her back toward him. She was wild with lust, wanting to crawl all over him and tear the clothes from his body. Wanted to feel the sweet, delicious stinging blows from his hand and his big cock inside her all at the same time.

He turned away from her and got out of the car. Then he walked around to her side, opened the door, and pulled her outside.

Seizing her by the wrist, he hauled her out of the car then pulled her around to the front of the car, her boots sliding on the snow. He pulled her coat off of her shoulders, unbuttoned her blouse, and yanked down her red lacy bra. Pushing her down on the hood of the car, she lay on her back, dazed by the sudden shock of the cold against her skin, the warmth of the car, and the aggressiveness of his assault as he bent his head to her breasts and began to savage her nipples, licking and biting them until they were swollen and distended. He sucked hard and greedily as she squirmed and whimpered under him, the pain in her nipples sending electric shocks directly to her hot core, her dripping wet panties feeling colder and colder in the night air.

She tried to grind against him, desperate for relief but he held her down. "Stay still," he growled before resuming his systematic torture of her abused nipples. She thrashed her head from side to side and pushed weakly at his head. "Please, please fuck me," she pleaded.

He finally, reluctantly released her nipple with a slurp and gave her a disapproving look before standing up, pulling her along with him. Then in one quick motion, he twisted her arm behind her back and pushed her face first onto the car. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a length of rope, and tied her wrists behind her back. Her body shaking with fear, arousal and adrenaline, she lay on the car feeling paralyzed as he pulled down her red lace panties, then pushed her legs apart. Pressing down on the hood of the car, she could feel the vibration of its powerful engine humming powerfully and inexorably against her desperate clit. When he thrust his fingers into her, she came within seconds, humping the car hood desperately and clamping around his fingers, nearly weeping with relief as her orgasm tore threw her. "Who does this belong to, Swan?" his voice was a caress.

"You! It belongs to you," she said, shaking with her orgasm.

He pulled away from her and stood up as she lay shaking with the aftershocks and recovering from her climax. She was vaguely aware the clink of his belt buckle in her ears as he unclasped the buckle and pulled his belt off. She was too preoccupied with her own pleasure to realize that he was folding the strap in half, the buckle end in his left hand when he leaned over her again.

"Those are some lovely welts I gave you last night," he said tenderly as he stroked her naked, still sore ass and thighs with his warm right hand. "But in retrospect, I think I was too easy on you. You enjoyed your punishment far too much for it to really count, don't you think?"

Her eyes snapped open with sudden alarm and the dawning realization that he had much, much more planned for her. "What are you talking about?" she asked sharply.

"You've hardly atoned for all of your many transgressions toward me, have you? You haven't even acknowledged what you've done, let alone apologized," he sounded deeply wounded and disappointed in her.

Feeling panicked, she struggled against the rope that bound her and his elbow between her shoulder blades as he continued to stroke her, his hands delving between her legs to tease her oversensitive nub until she was ready to come a second time. Her mind worked feverishly as she panted with fright and arousal. _What, exactly, was he referring to? The breakins? Spying on him? Minor property damage? Oh god, did he know or suspect what she had done today with the remains of his release? How would he know?_

"Such soft, creamy skin," he whispered admiringly, kissing her neck with the lightest of kisses and delicate licks of his wicked tongue as she shivered and tried not to panic. "How much more beautiful will your skin look after I've kissed it with my belt?"

Her heart leapt into her throat as he brought the belt down against the car with a sharp smack and she jumped involuntarily.

"Lay still and take your punishment like a good girl," he ordered sternly. He took her panties and used them to wipe away her spendings from her orgasm, then stuffed them into her mouth. "I think a panty gag is just the thing for a strapping, you can bite down on it to keep from crying out, but I fear they will be ruined afterward. My apologies, darling."

She screamed and cursed at him incoherently, but he ignored her, raised the strap, and brought it down hard against her ass. She jumped, bit down on the gag, and tried not to scream, squeezing her eyes shut as she heard the strap crack like a clap of thunder in the night, bouncing off the trees eerily.

The fucker was nothing if not systematic, she reflected as she squirmed under his blows. He started at the top of her ass, first striking one side then the other, and methodically worked his way down to the back of her thighs. That hurt way worse than her ass cheeks. She had a high tolerance for pain, and tried not to give him the satisfaction of crying out, but by the time he had reached her thighs she was sobbing and screaming through the gag with a mixture of pain, fear, and embarrassment. Her embarrassment was the most disturbing and acute, stemming from the growing awareness that the combination of her throbbing ass, the fear-inspired adrenalines and endorphins flooding through her body, and the strong vibrations of the car engine against her sex had catapulted her to an entirely new level of sexual sensation. She could feel herself growing wetter by the minute until she could feel the droplets running down her legs. Every nerve ending in her body was screaming for release, for _him_. With every crack of his belt she craved him more, seized by the irrational conviction that if he did not fill and complete her with his cock and his come she would disintegrate into a pile of ash.

She could hear him panting behind her, knowing instinctually and with absolute certainty that it was not simply the exertion that impeded his breathing. It was his arousal. He was intoxicated by both her fear and excitement as well as his absolute domination and control of her mind and body. It was oddly peaceful.

After what seemed like hours, he stopped and traced along the angry, fresh red welts he'd raised with light fingers. "Beautiful," he breathed, seemingly awed by the artistry of his handiwork. Then he bent down and began to soothe the tortured skin with his warm tongue, and pulled her panties from her mouth as she gasped for air.

The sensations his tongue caused as it traced over her fresh wounds was so overwhelmingly tender and sensual that it transformed her sobs of pain to mewls of pleasure and then to a surprised scream of release as she suddenly found herself on the precipice and flung headlong down into maelstrom of another shuddering orgasm.

As she was coming, before she could focus or collect herself, she screamed as she felt him suddenly ram into her with his huge, swollen cock. He pulled nearly out of her, before slamming into her again from tip to hilt. He did this over and over again, mercilessly snapping his hips against her punished ass, now on fire from his renewed assault. His powerful cock pounded her against the car, which now seemed like one giant, relentless vibrator against her overstimulated clit and she could feel another orgasm building even as she tried to squirm away. "Oh no, oh no, oh no," she sobbed as her body was wracked by another orgasm, her pussy clamping down hard on his pulsing cock.

As her shudders subsided, she felt him pulling his cock out of her dripping wet cunt and then rubbing the swollen, wet head against the entrance to her other, narrower passage. She was too shocked and weakened to protest at first as he pushed the tip into her tight confines. She could feel him pulsate and instinctively clenched her muscles as he pushed in further.

"What are you doing?" she feebly protested, trying unsuccessfully to wriggle away from his insistent cock piercing her, with all the effectiveness of a fish struggling on a spear.

He leaned over, pressing her back into the car as he whispered into her ear. "You've got a very sweet, wet little cunt and while I love to fuck it, you're also a very, very bad girl. And bad girls get fucked in the ass, so don't even think about trying to keep my cock out of there."

She felt herself clenching again, this time with excitement at his dirty talk and more than a little aroused at the thought of him filling her _there_ , in her most forbidden orifice. Her experiences to date had been disappointing and awkward in that area to say the least, but being ravished in the ass by a strong, dominant man had long been one of her dirtiest, most secret fantasies. She wanted to feel overpowered. She wanted to feel forced against her will to alleviate her guilt over her forbidden longings. He was right. She was a bad, bad girl.

Ever the gentleman, he paused to pull a tube of lube from his pocket of treasures _(did he travel with a collection of sex toys, she wondered?)_

"I told you I get hard every time I look at your ass, and I'm not leaving any part of you unviolated," he threatened as he coated himself with lube and smeared a generous dollop in and around her entrance.

He leaned over her again and continued to whisper temptingly in ear with dirty, forbidden temptations, the same way she imagined Satan would whisper to Eve in the Garden of Eden.

"Are you a bad girl?" he whispered, licking at her ear with his wicked tongue.

"Yes," she answered dreamily, rutting her ass back against him. "I'm a very, very bad girl."

"And what happens to bad girls?" he encouraged.

"They get fucked in the ass and…" she stopped.

"And what?" he prompted, running his hands around her and pinching her nipples until she was breathless again.

"They enjoy it," she sighed, wiggling her ass against him again.

But as he pressed into her, she couldn't stop herself from clenching again reflexively. Smartly, he smacked her flaming ass a few times, causing her to squeal with shock and pain. "Open up, you naughty slut… open up for your master," he commanded.

Obediently, she relaxed as he began to penetrate her. Although slow and careful, she felt herself gulping for air as he stretched and filled her, the burn bringing tears to her eyes as she opened herself completely to him. She felt overwhelmed for a few moments by the intense pain and the feeling of being full, too full. There was no room for air, no room for anything inside her body but _him_ and his enormous, marauding cock. When she finally felt his balls against her still dripping pussy, she was so full of cock she felt like she could taste the tip of it in the back of her throat. It was the most deeply erotic, sensual experience she had ever had.

He began moving, pumping slowly at first and then with increasing force as she began full throated screaming, first with pain, and then suddenly the knife edge of pain slipped and became mixed with increasing pleasure. It felt like every thrust stroked the walls of her pussy just on the other side and pulled deliciously at her most sensitive, responsive spots. The onrush of overwhelming sensation and the relentless vibration of the car motor against her clit caused her to shiver violently and to orgasm again and again until she began to try to pull herself away from the car, only to find herself speared ever more deeply by his brutal thrusts. Her sore ass stung and hurt like hell, but the throbbing only added to the intensity of the sensations that wracked her entire body. The erotic sensations built and built, demanding release over and over. When he reached under her and stuffed his fingers into her pussy, she began sobbing, "no more, no more, no more, Oh God, I'm coming again" as she climaxed hard yet again, stuffed completely full of him and wondering in a confused way if her body could withstand any more orgasms. Could you die from too many orgasms?

He pulled his fingers out of her and grasped her hips hard enough to leave bruises as his breathing became increasingly ragged. His grunts and sounds became more frenzied and bestial as he told her how much he loved fucking her hot, tight little ass, how he knew she'd be like this. "Oh, fuck, you're going to make me come, Emma," he said almost despairingly as he stopped and she felt his cock, impossibly, growing even bigger within her as she trembled and quaked around him. Moments later, he surged into her hard as he spurted his hot come into her ass with a hoarse shout. He collapsed on top of her, then they both slid boneless off the still vibrating car and fell into the leaves, his arms still wrapped around her as she continued to shake, her arms still tied behind her.

She felt him pull on the rope and the knot instantly uncoiled. She turned and buried her face her face in his chest, crying as he held her, stroking her hair and saying "Shh, shhh" over and over. She could hear his heart beating wildly and his hands shook a little. She clung to him. Improbably, she felt warm and safe in his arms even as she felt his warm cum leaking from her ass.

In truth, they were both shocked by the intensity of the experience. For a few minutes, their mutual ecstasy had felt frighteningly close to spontaneous combustion. Silently, he pulled out a flask of brandy, handed to her, and she gratefully took a few long, restorative pulls. He did the same, and they lay there together watching the stars and clinging to each other for what seemed like a long time.

When they had calmed down enough to realize they were both freezing, he raised himself up on his elbow and gazed down at her thoughtfully. They stared at one another in the darkness, until surprisingly, he bent down and captured her lips in a surprising and uncharacteristically tender kiss. His kiss was warm and soft and she found herself responding as his tongue ran along her lips and gently probed her. His hand caressed her cheeks and pushed back her hair, threading his fingers gently through the tangled strands and loosening the leaves caught in her curls. He'd never kissed her like this before. It was perhaps the biggest surprise of an evening full of shocks and unspeakable acts. It was the kiss of a lover. When it was over, she had to touch her lips to make sure that she hadn't imagined it.

He finally broke the kiss and stood up, then helped her to her feet, brushing the leaves and dirt from her and helping to button her up, put her coat back on, and put herself back together.

"There," she said, giving her blouse a final pat. "Am I tidy?"

He smiled at her ruefully, smoothed her hair back and rearranged it around her shoulders. "You'll do," he said, amused.

He opened the car door for her, but she paused before she got in and turned to face him. "Hook?" she said questioningly.

"Yes?" he answered, gazing down at her.

"The next time you want to 'play' with me, remind me to wear full body armor," she said. With that she carefully sat down, wincing with pain as her backside made contact with the hard seat of the Lamborghini.

He grinned at her.

They got back to Tony's in plenty of time. Gold and Belle were still on dessert and no one appeared to have noticed the temporary absence of Gold's expensive automobile. Hook discreetly dropped the keys behind the valet stand as he entered. Emma wasn't with him. When he'd pulled around back, he'd asked her if she'd fancy a drink.

"Uh, I don't think that would be good idea," she responded. "I'm going home."

"Fair enough. See you in church?" he asked impishly.

Emma heaved an exasperated sigh. "Do you have _any_ shame at all?" she demanded.

"Not a bit," he answered blithely pulling her into him for another kiss, this time an overtly sexual and demanding one.

She pushed him away. "I know you're not a priest so you can drop the act around me. Oh, and by the way, you're going to hell."

He just laughed at her. "Well if that's the case, I'd better be sure to have plenty of sinful fun before the Day of Judgment puts an end to it all."

"What if I told everyone?" she demanded.

"You won't," he said confidently.

"How can you be so sure?" she flipped her hair impatiently and moved a little to relieve the pressure on her sore ass.

"First, you're addicted to the sex. You aren't even close to realizing all of your secret submissive fantasies at this point. Second, I look very fetching in my clerical collar," he preened a little, the bastard!

"You are one cocky son-of-a-bitch," she huffed. "Although I acknowledge you do look very sexy in your collar, don't flatter yourself. I can take it or leave it."

He gave her a long pensive look. "Swan, your little shows of bravado are endearing but actually rather pitiful. Not only have you shown up in my office dressed as a schoolgirl and invited me to spank and fuck you, but tonight you freely submitted to a strapping from my belt and then multiple orgasms while I fucked you in your tight little ass. I wonder what Storybrooke would think to learn these highly interesting tidbits about the town's most wholesome, golden, All-American good girl?" He smirked and pinched her nipple hard.

She flushed then and set her lips as she glared at him. "This is NOT a healthy relationship," she said.

"Who said it was a 'relationship' as you so charmingly call it?" he responded insolently. "As far as I can tell, _you're_ the one who is stalking _me._ "

"I fucking hate you so much," Emma said intensely, her voice and face fuming with rage.

He turned toward her then, a speculative look on his foxy face. He seized her head between his hands, one hand winding through her hair, and put his face inches from hers.

"That just makes me want to fuck you more," he said seductively. He captured her lips in a kiss so bruising she could taste blood when, struggling, she pulled away, opened the car door, and practically ran all the way to the blessed sanctuary of home


	6. SIR PSYCHO SEXY

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma meets with her FBI/CIA contact, Peter Quinn, and learns the true identity of Father Hook, but she still doesn't know why he is living in Storybrooke posing as a priest. Peter Quinn, played by the beautiful Rupert Friend, is making a guest appearance from Showtime's Homeland. I've also had some fun borrowing a bit of Quinn's Homeland back story for the good Father Hook. To summarize, he's messed up.

**SIR PSYCHO SEXY**

 

 

            It was after Christmas when Emma finally got a response from her FBI contact in Quantico.  She woke up early one January morning to ice encrusted windows, frigid temperatures, and the buzzing of her phone indicating a new text message.

 

_I’ve got the results you were looking for.  Will be in Boston Thurs – meet me for lunch?_

Frowning, Emma sat up in bed and immediately texted back.

 

_Can’t you just email or call me to discuss?_

 

Her phone buzzed back seconds later.

 

_No. Better to talk in person. Meet me Sandrine’s near Harvard Square, 1 pm._

_“OK”_ she texted back. She threw the phone down on the bed and flopped back against the pillows.  Her heart was racing and her stomach was doing somersaults.  If the information was so sensitive he didn’t feel comfortable sharing it over the phone or in email, she must have stumbled onto a real bombshell. Was he a criminal?  A terrorist?

Drug smuggler?

 

Her mind raced through numerous increasingly implausible theories.  One thing she _was_ sure of, however – he was most definitely a sexual deviant and a total perv.  And since she was apparently powerless to resist him, what the hell did that make her?  He seemed to have tapped into some very deep, dark, and tormented part of her of psyche. He’d so messed with her mind that she could no longer distinguish between pain and pleasure or right and wrong. He made her heart race, her skin prickle, and her body burn with desire. She thought about him obsessively, constantly. She could never get enough of him and the past few weeks had been utter torment. He’d barely given her the time of day.

 

According to him, the Christmas season was an exceedingly busy and demanding time for  “religious professionals”, as he’d explained patronizingly to her and Mary Margaret.

Desperate for any kind of a fix for her addiction, she’d suddenly found herself attending nearly every Advent and Christmas service.  She’d sit through mass in a sort of stupor, unable to tear her eyes away from….his hands. She couldn’t stop thinking of all the things those hands had done to her.  Every. Dirty. Thing. 

 

Every so often, her eyes would drag themselves away from his hands and find herself fixated on his luscious lips as they formed the words, the tip of his wicked tongue occasionally running along his bottom lip, the flash of his wolfish teeth. She would suddenly find herself nearly panting and shivering as she remembered his teeth on her nipples and his tongue licking her pussy as she writhed under him.  She’d find herself clenching and shifting her bottom on the pew uncomfortably, realize what she was doing, then focus on deep breathing to steady herself again. And the mere thought of the burn of his belt or the wooden ruler on her tender flesh caused her to clench instantly and nearly climax without even touching herself.

 

Occasionally, his mellifluous voice would penetrate her consciousness enough to realize that whether or not he was a real priest, he seemed completely comfortable and at ease delivering the liturgy. Never did he stumble or hesitate in the slightest, nor did he ever consult the open catechism before him. He seemed sure and practiced in a way that suggested a thoroughgoing and longstanding familiarity with the material. It made her think that at the very least, he’d probably grown up with a fairly thorough Catholic education of some kind.

 

That made her wonder about Ruby’s comment of several months ago that Graham suspected the priest’s accent was fake. What did that indicate? Was he an American pretending to be British? A working class chav trying to pass as an educated Englishman? A member of the Russian mafia trying to pretend to be English? What?

 

Bumping into Graham one day at Granny’s and catching up on mutual friends, she casually asked him what he’d meant by his comment.

 

“So, do you think he’s trying to pass himself off as a toff or do you think he’s not even English?” she’d asked.

 

“No – the opposite,” Graham replied as he finished the last of his French fries. “He’s a toff with a posh accent, but he deliberately dumbs it down to estuary English.  Every once in a while, I hear him slip and the public school boy he truly is inside just oozes out of his mouth.”

 

“Explain,” Emma demanded.  “What’s ‘estuary English’ and why would someone do that?”

 

Graham shrugged.  “It’s pretty common among politicians like Tony Blair and David Cameron, young privileged people embarrassed by their upper class origins, and even some members of the royal family. They dumb down their accents to something called ‘Estuary English” -- the typical accent of southeastern England located somewhere between cockney and R.P. – that’s received pronunciation for you novices.”

 

“Really!” Emma sat back in the booth and fiddled with her straw.  “I had no idea. So you think the priest is faking it?”

 

“Definitely.  I’m betting he attended one of the more exclusive public schools, but he’s talking like an IT tech from Milton Keynes.” Graham snorted.

 

“I wonder why?” Emma mused.

 

“Why, indeed?” Graham responded, frowning. “I don’t like him one bit.”

 

Emma laughed.  “I’d say you’ve made that fairly obvious.  Don’t see you two bro’ing out together anytime soon over a few beers.”

 

“You got that right,” Graham said, as he rose to leave.

 

Emma decided to do a little research on estuary English and try to do a bit of sleuthing herself but finally gave up. Not having grown up British with the exquisite, ingrained  sensitivity to what an accent reveals about the class or geographic origins of another person, she was hopeless as an amateur Henry Higgins.

 

Besides, she’d had frustratingly few one on one encounters with the maddeningly sexy priest and when she had seen him, she was more interested in what was in his pants than conversation of any kind. On one occasion, he’d pulled her into a coat closet at Regina’s annual Christmas party.  While the rest of the guests had been assembled merrily around the piano in the Great Room singing “Deck The Halls” and “Jingle Bells”, she’d been on her knees giving him the best blow job of her life. She’d fondled and licked his heavy balls until he’d groaned with pleasure and she could feel them tightening in her mouth.  She’d used her hands to squeeze him as she sucked and licked his cock hard, slowly swallowing him deeper and deeper, enjoying his helpless little moans of pleasure and the tortured expression on his face as she repeatedly brought him to the brink of orgasm only to slow down again as he throbbed and pulsated in her mouth. A tennis racquet fell on her head, but she ignored it. Finally, she teased him to the point he could bear it no longer and he seized her head and plunged forcefully several times down her throat, nearly choking her. Expecting him to shoot his load down her throat, he surprised her by pulling out at the last minute and coming all over her face, thick ropes of semen bursting out of his dick as he jerked himself with his hand. It seemed to fall in torrents on her forehead, cheeks, mouth and neck.

 

“Enjoy that, come slut?” he asked tenderly as he rubbed the thick, milky fluid into her skin. Then he handed her what looked like an old tennis sweater of Robin’s.  Emma cleaned herself off as best she could, then guiltily stuffed the sweater underneath a pile of old boots, fervently hoping no one would be able to identify the telltale residue when the sweater was at least unearthed.

 

She made a move to duck out of the closet but he firmly pulled her against his chest.  She felt his hand lift her skirt and caress her bare ass.

 

“How did those welts heal?” he murmured, running his fingers lightly back and forth as she shivered with arousal at the memory of his belt against her skin and his cock in her ass as he forced orgasm after orgasm from her body as she lay plastered against Gold’s vibrating sports car.

 

He moved his hands around and began delving into her wet folds, his thumb circling her swollen, needy little clit. She responded with little gasps and pants and reflexively ground herself against him.

 

“I can’t wait to give you another whipping. I’m sure you deserve one,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “I’ve seen the way you’ve looked at me at Mass with your mind filled with filthy thoughts and your hot little pussy squirming against the bench. And I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Sometimes I wish you wouldn’t come to church, because watching you makes me so painfully hard I can’t concentrate.  All I can think of is wrapping your hair around my cock then bending you over the pulpit and fucking you till you beg for mercy.”

 

Between his talented fingers and his dirty talk, she could feel a tremendous orgasm building quickly within her and her legs began to tremble.  He thrust two long fingers hard into her wet heat and whispered “Come for me.”

 

That was all it took for the wave to break as the detonation of her orgasm caused her entire body to jerk, a torrent of wetness gushing over his fingers, tears filling in her eyes as she sobbed quietly with relief and sank boneless against him.  She would have fallen to the floor had he not held her erect with an iron grip, continuing to stroke her as a second orgasm built hard on the heels of the first and crashed over her until she was stunned senseless. Beyond the closet confines, the assembled guests had just burst into “Joy To The World”. But as she slowly recovered her wits, all she could hear in her own head was the “Hallelujah Chorus.”

 

When Emma collected herself and returned to the party shortly thereafter, she’d found herself trapped in conversation with some of the sweet old ladies in Mary Margaret’s knitting circle.  Apparently they were all knitting little Christmas presents for the Good Father Hook, clucking like a gaggle of hens about what a lovely, polite young man he was, and what a Godly inspiration his religious devotion provided to the young people of Storybrooke.  He was a real role model.

 

Emma chuckled darkly to herself as she listened, impassive, to their nattering.  If they only knew that at this very moment she could still feel their role model’s dried semen on her skin, her lips tender and swollen from the punishment of this “Godly” man’s huge, porn star cock pulsating in her mouth and ramming her throat. _Yeah right_ , she thought cynically, _he’s god-like all right, but not quite like they imagine._

 

After the closet incident, the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day seemed to crawl, each day leaving Emma feeling more fidgety and frustrated.  She was constantly tempted to touch herself and even get her vibrator out of its secret hiding place, but then she would remember his prohibition and stop herself. She told herself it was absurd, yet somehow his power over her was such that she couldn’t bring herself to disobey, even in secret.  Somehow she knew he would know if she lied to him.

 

Her patience was finally rewarded on New Year’s Eve at Leroy’s party when he followed her to an upstairs bathroom, bent her over the sink, and fucked her so roughly she was sure she was torn and bleeding. He battered her with his monstrous, rampant beast until they both came shuddering, Insatiable, he was hard again minutes later, impaling her on his shaft with violent, punishing strokes and yanking her tormented hips against him until he came again with a feral growl. His hard use of her left her swollen and sore the next day but she didn’t care. She’d reveled in the thick, hard length of him sliding in and out of her, had missed painfully the feel of him inside her, the feeling of being entirely filled and possessed by him.   She’d almost wept with relief as he had plunged into her, so desperate to feel his body against hers that she’d lain awake afterward until daybreak, constantly tempted to sneak out of the house to the Rectory and crawl into bed with him. Even if he whipped her for her disobedience. Especially if he whipped her.

 

She’d started to think seriously about consulting a shrink when she’d finally received the text from her contact, and she could hardly wait until Thursday to find out what he knew. When the long awaited day arrived at last, she woke before dawn, dressed and went to her car. She’d decided to drive the roughly two hour distance to Boston, and had told her parents the night before she needed to attend a business meeting there regarding a possible new case for her agency.

 

Her FBI contact, Peter, was in town as a guest speaker at the Kennedy School of Government at Harvard, so they were meeting in Cambridge rather than downtown Boston. Dropping her car off at the Charles Hotel, Emma walked the few blocks over to Harvard Square, the snow from record setting snowfalls still piled high everywhere. Cambridge was always a fascinating place to people watch.  Even the homeless panhandlers were articulate and well educated. The mellow red brick buildings of Harvard College seemed to smile benignly in the weak winter sun on the throngs of Asian tourists and students passing in front. Emma could always spot a Harvard student a mile away – they always had a look about them that suggested they were truly one of God’s Elect. Crossing the Square toward Harvard Yard, she ducked onto a side street and entered Sandrine’s, a delightful, intimate French restaurant that Peter liked to frequent when he was in town.

 

He was waiting for her as she entered, standing to greet her with a hug and light kiss on the cheek.  Over six feet tall and stunningly handsome with amazing cheekbones that could cut glass, Peter Quinn was the most swoon worthy ex-spook she’d ever run across, and she’d met a few. He’d worked mostly overseas in a shadowy capacity for the CIA for many years before supposedly getting out of the spy business to become a profiler with the FBI, though Emma strongly suspected he continued to work for “the Company” when his special talents were required. Emma had gotten to know him a few years earlier when her agency had worked with the FBI to infiltrate and break up a notorious gang of art thieves and counterfeiters associated with the Albanian mafia. It had been Emma who had finally broken open the case by tracking down and identifying the organization’s leader, a ruthless, violent career criminal named Radek Mogavech. He was the key to an international crime organization that specialized not only in art insurance fraud and counterfeiting, but car and identity theft, large-scale jewelry and casino heists, and human trafficking.

 

Emma had heard a rumor that the “big man” had a mistress in Manhattan. She eventually identified the woman as a Brazilian national and former model named Raffaela Dominguez.  She’d followed her and discovered she had her nails done regularly at a small salon in her apartment building on the upper west side. Emma had started frequenting the place, made friends with the rather lonely Raffaela, and eventually began putting pieces together from the bits of information Raffaela had unwisely and indiscreetly confided in her.

 

The revelations had led to some major busts in the organization but Mogavech himself slipped away at the last minute, probably forewarned by an insider in the local police force.

 

They exchanged pleasantries, inspected the menu, and ordered before getting down to business.

 

“How do you know this man?” Peter asked her abruptly, casting aside his menu.

 

Emma hedged. “I’m spending the winter in my hometown in Maine, a town on the coast called Storybrooke.  He’s recently moved there, and there are a few things about him that don’t add up.  Just thought I’d check him out.” She fumbled with the napkin in her lap.

 

“Would it be indelicate of me to ask how you obtained a semen sample from him?”

 

“Yes, actually, it would,” she looked down at her lap, blushing furiously.

 

“No judgment, Emma,” he reassured her, leaning over the table and lowering his voice. “But you should know you’re potentially involved with a very dangerous and unpredictable man.”

 

She was on the edge of her seat now, her neck prickling. She knew it!  She knew that bastard was hiding something. “Who is he – and _what_ is he, exactly.”

 

She was frustrated when they were interrupted by the waiter bringing their salads.  When the waiter had gone, she leaned forward again expectantly.

 

Peter hesitated. “Emma, I’m willing to share some information with you as a personal favor, but you have got to understand that this is highly sensitive, even classified, information. I had to call in some rather large favors to find out as much as I have. I shouldn’t really tell you anything.”

 

“You mean if you tell me, you’ll have to kill me?” she joked.

 

“Something like that,” he grinned faintly.

 

“Of course I understand, Peter, and I think you know from our experiences together that you can count on my discretion.”

 

“It’s still all kinds of wrong for me to tell you anything, but I’m actually concerned enough about you that I think you need to know,” he said, taking a sip of water.

 

“Know what?  For Gods sake, you can’t leave me hanging like this!” Emma said, breathless now. She tapped on the table nervously, unable to consider even a morsel of food.

 

“Okay, his real name is Jones – Killian Jones. Or more precisely, Killian Andrew St. John Fawsley-Jones.” He pronounced “St. John” as “Sin-jin”.

 

“You’re kidding,” she said, exhaling gustily. “He sounds like a character in a Monty Python sketch of Upper Class Twit of the Year.”

 

Peter grinned at her, and speared a forkful of salad. “Kind of. Aristocratic, but completely dysfunctional family. Father was the black sheep of the family, virtually disowned, a compulsive gambler, a drunk, a serial womanizer. Drank and gambled himself into penury then shot himself to death in a Monte Carlo hotel room. Mother was a fragile, sheltered little rich girl who developed a bad cocaine habit and later spent years in and out of rehab and institutions with mental health issues. The son – only child by the way -- was practically an orphan, shuttled between lots of aunties and cousins who didn’t give a shit about him and actually spent most of his time in boarding schools from the time he was about eight.”

 

“That sounds kind of sad,” Emma said, mulling it over. It tugged at her heart to imagine the lonely, abandoned little boy he must have been. Then her face turned inquisitorial again. “What boarding school?” she queried sharply.

 

“Ampleforth College in Yorkshire. It’s a very prestigious Roman Catholic public school run by Benedictine monks,” Peter explained.

 

“Ah, that explains a lot,” Emma said thoughtfully, spearing a slice of pear in her salad.

 

Peter continued. “He comes from a dissipated, effete family of Roman Catholic aristocrats – kind of like Sebastian Flyte in _Brideshead Revisited_. He read theology at Cambridge, then went to Sandhurst. Ended up as an army sniper and then joined a special ops team.”

 

“Special ops? Don’t you mean black ops?” Emma pressed him.

 

Peter gave her a ghost of a smile. “Now you know if I told you that I really would have to kill you, right? But let’s just say that he, like me, was in the business of killing bad guys.”

 

Emma grinned back at him then went at it from a different angle. “What kind of record does he have?”

 

“Hellraiser, unpredictable, in and out of trouble for most of his school and university career.  Borderline at Sandhurst, but proved himself to be absolutely top notch as a sniper and special ops officer. Deadly accurate marksman, resourceful in tight situations, and absolutely fearless.  Recklessly so. Awarded several honors for gallantry and courage under fire. Worked with both  MI-6 and CIA after the military,” Peter explained, running a hand through his hair.

 

He went silent as the waiter removed their salad plates and replaced them with the entrees they’d ordered, mushroom tarte flambee for her, steak frites for him.

 

“Come on Peter, isn’t that what people like you get paid to be?” Emma teased after the waiter had departed. She knew good and well that Peter himself had been notorious in black ops and was still involved.

 

“It’s a fine line.  A lot of men drawn to high risk professions like test pilots and special forces have a low autonomic response nervous system.  They are the opposite of the anxious, nervous type – they crave thrills, risk, and danger because it’s the way they feel alive. It’s addicting for them, like a drug, and it’s hard to stop. But it can go too far, and believe me when I tell you, ‘wet work’ over time can inflict some fairly major psychological trauma and mental instability.  There’s a high rate of marital failure and suicide with them. When they burn out, sometimes they just fall apart. I know I did.”

 

“So, Jones, is he still in the company then?” Emma asked, furrowing her brow.

 

“From what I can tell, he dropped out of sight a few years ago.  A lot of what went down in Afghanistan, Pakistan, Iraq – it was pretty bad if you were special forces of any kind but especially black ops.  On top of that, he was involved in an operation in Caracas that went terribly wrong. The support team totally botched it and he accidentally killed a ten year old boy.  He ended up in a mental ward himself and was diagnosed with severe post-traumatic stress.”

 

“And then?  Is he now considered ‘cured’?” Emma pressed, her mouth agape.

 

“Don’t know. He walked out of the hospital one day and went AWOL. There seems to be some intelligence he got mixed up with your old pal Radek Mogavech, may have been part of a big casino heist, and the theft of a big cache of diamonds in Rotterdam. Rumor has it he may have worked as a hired assassin not only for Mogavech for one of the mobs from the former Soviet Union – not sure which one.”

 

Emma pushed back her chair and shook her head. “It seems likely he’s hiding out, but whether from his former government employers or mobsters, it doesn’t sound too clear.”

 

Peter nodded. “Probably hiding from both, since it sounds like when the big bust of Mogavech’s organization went down, Jones managed to get away with both the diamonds _and_ the casino loot.  He’s a marked man for double crossing Mogavech and I don’t blame him for going to ground. I also suspect he’s probably gotten some fairly high level inside help to do it from our guys. Whatever his sins, no one – _no one_ \-- in either American or British intelligence wants this guy to surface, including being arrested by local law enforcement. He knows too much, and he’s too unstable. Although they might not care if he turns up dead at the hands of his former criminal associates.”

 

“What about a wife or girlfriend?” Emma asked.

 

“Dude has no trouble attracting women, but I can tell you from personal experience that there is no possibility of a long term, stable, or healthy relationship in his particular line of work. And I couldn’t find any evidence of any such connection in his file.”

 

They ate their main courses in silence for a while, then Peter gave her an appraising look. “Okay, Emma, your turn. What name is he using and what did he tell you he did for a living?”

 

“This is – awkward,” she responded, honestly. “He goes by the name of James Hook. Father James Hook.  He’s pretending to be the parish priest of our local Catholic church.”

 

Peter started laughing then, vastly amused. “Fuck me,” he said, gasping with mirth, “Are you telling me you’re bonking the local priest?”

 

Emma gave him an annoyed expression. “Yes, and it’s the best sex of my entire life,” she responded tartly. “Unfortunately.”

 

“Well, given the fact he seems to be trying to hide out and stay off the grid, it seems like reckless behavior even for him. How did your little affair start?” he asked her, mystified.

 

“Umm, I think ‘reckless’ does not even begin to cover the level of insanity of his sexual thrill seeking.  It’s like he _wants_ to be caught. He doesn’t even bother pretending with me anymore. And it ‘started’, as you so diplomatically put it, when he shoved me up against the wall of an alley, threatened me, and then felt me up, to give you the G rated version.”

 

“Wow.  Hot, I guess.” Peter said, still amused. His face turned serious again. “But seriously, Em, you have no idea what’s going on with this guy.  He’s potentially dangerous, even unstable. He may have an agenda you know nothing about as well. For all you know, he’s there preparing to carry out a hit. You need to be careful.”

 

“Like you’re one to talk, “ Emma retorted. “How’s Carrie?”

 

Peter sighed, his shoulders drooping at the mention of the intelligence operative on whom he had had a crush for several years. “I don’t know whether I’m more scared _for_ her or more scared _of_ her.”

 

Emma nodded sympathetically.  “I know the feeling. Good luck with that. ”

 

“And you,” he responded gravely. “But the best advice I can give you is, whatever kind of relationship or friends with benefits or kinky sex thing you’ve got going on with this priest slash hitman, you need to stop it -- now.  I don’t know exactly what’s up with him, but there isn’t a doubt in my mind that this ends badly.”

 

“I know that,” she said, sadly, “But I can’t stop. I just can’t. But thanks for your help. I really appreciate it.” She took a deep breath.

 

 He regarded her silently for a few minutes. “I know there’s nothing I can say to change your mind. But let me know if you get into trouble.”

 

“Oh, I’m already in trouble – bad trouble,” she said glumly.

 

“Oh there’s one more interesting thing you should know. His choice of Storybrooke, Maine is rather curious given that a businessman named Gold also resides there, apparently. Know him?” Peter sat back in his chair and dabbed at his lips with his napkin.

 

“Sure,” Emma responded, “What does he have to do with it?”

 

“We suspect Gold has had some involvement with Radek’s group and others fencing stolen goods.  I don’t know if he and Jones even know each other, or if they do and that’s the reason Jones came there.  But it’s an interesting coincidence, no?” Peter said, his curiosity evident.

 

“Very,” Emma agreed, her voice thoughtful. “I’ve always thought Gold was shady as hell and the priest seems kind of fixated on Gold in a weird way.”  She refrained from relaying the car theft incident. “I’ll keep an eye on that.”

 

“Good.  You might be able to help us out again if you see something,” Peter said, sounding relieved.

 

Emma nodded solemnly. Peter motioned for the check.


End file.
